A Picture's Worth
by woodbyne
Summary: Francis Bonnefoy is an artist who needs to get away from his life. While trying to rediscover himself, he discovers Matthew Williams, a college student who models for figure studies, and has a figure Francis would love to study. AU, CanFra/FraCan.
1. Escapism At Its Sweetest

_BONNEFOY SAYS AU REVOIR TO ART SCENE_

_Paris, France – It was announced yesterday that self-made billionaire artist Francis Bonnefoy (32) will be taking what he terms a 'sabbatical' from the art world. _

_Bonnefoy, who graduated suma cum laude from … and holds a master's degree in fine arts from the Royal Academy of Arts in London – when he has lectured for five years, yesterday held a press conference in his home in Bordeaux, informing the public of his decision to take leave from his work as an artist; and most would say his senses._

_The Parisian painter has taken a sabbatical from his work in order to "revaluate what [he] wants from his art, and what [he]needs to focus on in terms of bettering it." Several art critics say that if Bonnefoy leave the art world now, his work will not be welcome upon his return. _

"_His time is now," says an unnamed source close to the artist, "There won't be a market like this for him again"-_

A weary, mildly exasperated sigh was let out slowly through the man's nose. He was quite fond of his nose. It had a prominent, sloping bridge and slightly flared nostrils, perfect for sighing through and finding trouble or gossip. He crumpled the page of newsprint and tossed it into the wastepaper basket with careless ease. It was for this exact reason that he was sitting in a coffee shop in Montreal, Canada with a sketchpad on his lap and a charcoal stick balanced between his fingers like a cigarette. His eye was out, his figures were bland. While technically perfect, his work was about as interesting and enthralling as basket-weaving; a pleasant activity, but nothing that would capture the heart, consume the mind or steal the breath from one's lungs.

While what he had told the newspaper reporters hadn't been a total lie, it wasn't the real reason he had left Paris. Yes, he was tired of the pressure, the clamouring for new work, for critique, the constant demands for more. Yes, art had become a job rather than a passion, and that was part of the problem. Picking up his coffee cup, he sipped at the bitter beverage, savouring the tasteless heat of it in his mouth and the way the flavour lasted for a few brief moments on his tongue like the lingering caress of a lover.

The sky was a patchwork canvas of a thousand greys that bulged around the restraints of the bare, skeletal trees that reached up, holding the rainclouds back. The thin, winter-sharp twigs threatened to pierce the sky and bring down the tears of heaven. Francis half wished that they would. Then he could sit outside in the rain and let misery seep through him in the same way as the water would.

Most would simply call it artist's temperament when he hurled his brushes to the floor and tossed his canvas from the second story window. Other's would call it melodrama when he tore at his hair and threw paint, turpentine and linseed oil at the wall, leaving a shattered, colourful chaos in his wake. He himself didn't dare go so far as to call his deep-seated, listless frustration depression, but he didn't know what else to call it. He was unhappy. The joy of his life had drained away, leaving an uninspired canvas full of drab neutrals and straightforward compositions.

He looked at his watch, then up at the monochrome ceiling of cloud. It was time to go. Sighing, he packed his sketchbook back into his bag, paid of his cup of coffee (and the four he'd drunk before that one) and walked a few blocks over to the industrial-looking warehouse stood. Here, he hoped against all hope, he could start again, rebuild this from the ground up. Rekindle the passion that had been sucked from the art he loved so much. Because as much as he hated to admit it, Francis Bonnefoy had lost his will to paint.

This anticlimactic statement is not nearly so theatrical as saying that he had lost his will to live, but it was very close to. Francis' live had been focused on producing paintings for so long that he didn't know what else he was supposed to do. If he couldn't paint, there was no point. It was what he lived for. In the same way as a doctor might live to make sick people better, or a comedian might live to make people laugh, Francis Jacques de Bonnefoy lived to paint. The thought that somewhere in the world, someone was looking at his work and that it was bringing a little bit of beauty into their lives made him happy. It made his own life worth-while. It also meant that once he hit a dry spell – that time every artist has when they feel like the anti-Midas – everything fell apart. He would start drinking, his love-hate relationship with nicotine would move towards love and he became quite possibly the worst house guest ever imaginable. But it was better than leaving him in his own company.

Francis alone and in one of his moods had been known to wreck houses, start fires, run riot, get himself and others arrested, and spend days at a time wandering the streets of the city. The problem was that no one knew when the moods started, or why, and because he lived alone (not that he spent a lot of time at home) it was difficult to tell when he started to feel the itch of the 'Everything I do is shit's.

Much though he had been encouraged by everyone around him, Marianne (his sister), his friends, his co-workers, even the grumpy Alice Kirkland who managed his career, he'd refused all kinds of medication. Be it for depression, anxiety, mood swings, BPD or bi-polar 2, he told everyone quiet firmly that he wasn't going to take a pill to stop being the way he had always been.

The warehouse was raw brick and messy cement. Corrugated iron and rusted metal fittings shed metallic flakes or dried blood on the grey slush that had a few days earthier been crisp snow. There were still a few patches of ice clinging tenaciously to the wet black tar that rolled like an eternal sea up to the steps of the so-called studio. The entire building looked like a hangover from eras past. This was what too much grunge and punk did to on place; left it dishevelled and wanting. Francis felt an odd sense of kinship with the brick and mortar before him. He too felt like a hangover; restless, nauseas, listless.

Watching his breath condense in the air for a while, the Frenchman steeled himself to go in there and draw. This was enforced. He must. He wanted so badly to want to paint. Maybe a few figure studies would kick start his drive. He had always favoured painting nudes. The beauty of the human body wasn't something that should be hidden behind the screen of clothes.

'You have a figure I would love to paint,' was a phrase he knew in almost every European language. It was his favourite pick-up line, especially at someone else's exhibition (he was mean enough to poach admirers from other artists with his prowess as both an artist and a lover) and it almost never failed. The free alcohol at most exhibitions probably helped a whole lot, too.

The cold of the iron door-handle bit into his palm, and he had to press his weight onto it to move to stiff metal. The door swung open with a tired groan, letting a blast of warm air move is hair back from his face. Warm, soft yellow greeted his eyes. Francis made a sheepish note to himself not to judge a book by its cover. There, he was learning already. He didn't linger in the door, not wanting to let the heat out – the model wouldn't thank him for that.

After a brief and forgettable muddle of hand-shaking and introductions that he wasn't going to bother remembering – he was here to draw, not make friends – he moved to a corner of the room, choosing to just let the model choose what he drew, and set up his easel.

Feeling a little like maybe this was going to be a disgusting waste of his time and money, Francis let out a deep sigh and looked up from his blank newsprint as the 'teacher' barked out,

"Three minute poses; non-dominant hand. Go!" and set a recording of some poor violinist someone had thought was talented shrieking in the background.

But Francis couldn't give a fuck about the chorus of feline-abuse in his ears or the fact that his arm was obeying the militaristic orders it had been given. He didn't care that his lips had parted in wonder. He didn't care that his eyes were wide. He was blatantly staring at the model, barely daring to blink. He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man Francis had ever seen.

Long fingers were laced behind his head, covering shaggy blonde hair. His spine was arched away from the Frenchman, showing off the wings of his shoulder blades. His legs were set apart, weight resting on the back leg while the other was used for balance. The soft lighting cast him in gold. He was beautiful. Quietly confidant in his nudity, the way the skin of his shoulders creased showed a subtle scar across the bone, a welt, raised and silvery.

"Next pose!"

Muscles ripples and flexed beneath their fragile covering of skin as he moved, turning to face the awed Frenchman, head down as he balanced himself. His strong arms were set on his knee as he knelt, left leg stretched out behind him, right one set straight. He raised his face to look straight ahead, and Francis felt his heart thud in his chest, joy seeping through his system like an alcoholic buzz.

He had a slightly crooked nose with a narrow bridge that looked like it had been broken more than once. There were deep circles around his eyes that were almost the exact same shade of indigo as his wide irises. His lips weren't plush or soft-looking, they really looked like they needed some lip-balm, but they were a beautifully balanced cupid's bow. His cheeks slightly concave; the barest swoop from cheekbone to clean jaw.

Francis was barely sparing a second to look at the piece of paper he was drawing on – only enough time to ascertain that he wasn't butchering the angelic form before him – because it wasn't nearly as captivating as the man kneeling in front of him. The Frenchman had always considered, perhaps a little worryingly, that other people were objects to be drawn. Three-Dee images to be set to paper and canvas. But this man… there was a depth to his eyes and a strength to his pose that Francis wasn't quite willing to capture or tie down. But at the same time he wanted to have it for himself, a weak copy, but some semblance that would remind him of everything. The way this man boldly carried his own body, proud of it, his strength, stillness, silent confidence. This pure, utterly flawed perfection. The Frenchman could have wept for joy.

Francis Bonnefoy wanted to paint.

**I write about a lot of things that I don't know about. The mafia, rock bands, getting married, doing drugs, being totally in love, being a man. So I decided, to hell with it. I'm going to do what 'they' say and write what I know. What I know is art. I take three classes a week and teach another. I've auctioned and sold work, and I've been working on my drawing and painting skills constantly for 14 years, hopefully within the next decade, I will have a master's degree in Fine Arts. **

**So, this is what I know. I'd like to know what you think.**


	2. Wrangling Myself A Member Of The CCA

**I would like it to be known that I positively detest smoking. It's a disgusting habit.  
>Tala, Valeada, Chishio chuudoku, TheImortalAlchemist, theauthor94, Toxinogen, DeiDeiArtistic, The Voices Talk to Me, 1silentmouse.<br>Thank you very much for your reviews!**

Matthew strolled leisurely around the studio as the so-called artists had coffee in the back room. It was an activity that always lead to some mixed emotions on his part. There was pride that someone was drawing him – he'd never admit to preening when he saw a particularly good image, but just because he wouldn't fess up didn't mean that he didn't do it – and then there was the mixture of horror, disgust and amusement he felt when he saw something particularly off with out of the drawings. Too long legs, a too big head, bow-legs, ape arms, hunchbacks, and those mortifying occasions when whomever it was (usually, and disturbingly, women in their mid- to late forties with cougars' smiles) mangled his manhood beyond all recognition. On one such instance the drawing could have been favourably been compared to a butternut. Unfavourably; a watering can.

He stopped when he got to the easel in the corner. They were arranged in a circle in one half of the warehouse floor, and once the class was over, the students usually turned their work inward to receive critique from the teacher – the tough-love and tough shit Jeanne - so that they could better themselves next time. It was downright unheard of for her to allow one of her flock to opt out of the ritual tongue lashing; dishing compliments and insults in the same honeyed tone with the skill of a dominatrix. So why was this one still not facing inward?

Carefully, the Canadian edged between the easels that stood like solemn sentinels of their art to look at the charcoal drawing clipped to a ratty piece of board by two stained bulldog clips. Matthew's eyebrows moved slowly up his forehead like little elevators of hair; an almost audible _ding_ as they reached the apex of their journey. The bridge of his glasses slid down his nose at the movement. If it wasn't for the fine dust of black powder that covered everything, he would have been sure that this was a photograph. The lines were smooth, the shadow's rough. There were smears of Conte and compressed charcoal, drawing out and pushing back, moulding the flat, soft grey of willow until it became a fully formed figure. One so realistic that he almost wanted to reach out and touch it to see if it felt as real as it looked.

Had he really sat like that for two whole hours? The picture was beautiful. The technique was lovely, and though Matt was the first to admit that he really didn't know jack shit about art, this had to be a masterpiece. Some of the other work was barely even finished, but this? This was not only finished but reverentially polished. It was almost surreal; the man in the picture was quite clearly him (his protesting back and shoulders attested; yes, he had sat like that for two torturous hours) but at the same time it was so beautifully rendered. It couldn't be, could it? The man who had been standing here, he was new. Blonde. Would he be here next time as well? Sighing, Matthew slipped out the heavy door, fully intending to have a smoke.

~====o)0(o====~

Francis leant against the side of the weathered building as though it was an old friend. His head rested against the rough brick, long hair catching in the fissures and canyons the masonry provided. The cold that was slipping through his jacket and into an unwelcome embrace around his torso was of no concern to him; his mind was filled with images of artificial golden light caressing the dips and corves of strong, pale shoulders. The way that same light dripped like thick, sticky-sweet honey over the planes of the model's back and the swell and indentations of his buttocks. The way it settled in the lines of his arms and legs, the way the smooth flow of muscle was uninterrupted throughout his body, as though he had been created from one piece of some unknown, contradictorily fluid solid for Francis' avaricial eyes alone.

Raising a lit cigarette to his lips, he gave a contented pull, letting the rich, bitter smoke's flavour burn the back of his throat and nose. He could picture it now, a reclining pose (perfect for long periods of time), dramatic light running in rivulets down his body, perhaps a little Baroque chiaroscuro to counteract the rococo laciness of his usual work and complement the pale glow of his skin. The smoke streamed out of his nose. There was so much that could be done with that rich skin – the Frenchman opened his eyes and looked around as he felt the slim filter plucked from his lips.

There was the very angel of whom he had been thinking, his cigarette between his second and third fingers, taking a long draw, the tip sparking and glittering in the darkening air. There was silence, Francis studying the way the other man moved as he moved the tobacco away from his mouth blew smoke as grey as the sky and snow through rough, slightly puckered lips. He was wearing spectacles now, slim wire frames sat steadily on the crooked bridge of his nose, giving him a much more intellectual appeal. He was dressed simply, a thick, cream jacket with a sheepskin collar which rather detracted from his natural, striking colouring. A pity. He would look good in red. Or on a backdrop of plush red velvet. That could work.

"These things will kill you, eh," he said, returning the cigarette with a wry smile.

"We all have our vices, _oui_?" He smiled taking the thin roll of paper and plant back and placing his lips precisely where the other man's had been, "I take it this is one of yours, too?"

The red-blonde nodded, pulling out a packet and pulling out a cigarette of his own with his lips, laughing a little, "Yeah, not that I can afford them. D'you have a light?" He asked around the object in his mouth. Francis nodded, scooping a lighter from his pocket and flicking the switch. It sparked once and went out. With more force, the Frenchman pressed down on the button, clicking it until he managed to coax an orange flame from the stubborn piece of plastic.

Matt leant in, hunching over Francis' outstretched hand; letting the cigarette touch the dancing flame until the tip glowed red. Pulling back, he pushed his hand through his hair and sighed, drawing on the nicotine stick.

"I saw your work inside, it's very good," the Canadian jerked his head towards the iron door, "But I didn't catch your name earlier."

"Nor I yours. Francis Bonnefoy, pleased to meet you," he smiled, baby steps, baby steps. He held out his hand and the other took it and shook it firmly. A rough, masculine exchange that seemed totally at odds with the grace and elegance with which the model held himself.

"Matthew Williams, likewise," _Matthew_, he tried the name out silently. Matthieu. It suited him perfectly. He looked like a Matthieu, a strong and proud name, but it was also gentle somehow.

"Do you model full time?" He was rather hoping for a yes. If he was a full-time model then he would accept his offer as work. If he wasn't, that would make this proposition a whole lot more awkward.

"No," Matt said, shooting the Frenchman a sidelong glance, one brow quirked as a lopsided smile pulled at his lips, and Francis would have traded his soul for a camera. The way Matthew was hunched over from the cold, cigarette between his lips, the amused smile, "Just this class. I 'model' part time because I need to pay for my college tuition. Knowledge isn't cheap." He sighed, blowing a fan of smoke into the cold air.

"Oh? What are you studying?" Francis just had to wait until he could slip it into conversation. If money was the object, then that was no challenge. He could ply the Canadian with more money than he would know what to do with if he had to. He needed him to pose, if only for one day.

"Carcinogens. There's a proper name for it, but mostly that just confuses people. I'm going to be the guy behind the scenes who works out if people have cancer or not. It's not a job that gets a lot of press or recognition, but I like helping people and I don't need the hoo-ha," Matthew shivered amicably, smiling up at the grey sky as though it was an old friend. "Bit stupid though, me smoking when I'm going to be finding lung cancer in other people."

"That's an admirable profession," Francis smiled, sensing his opportune moment, "Expensive, too. And I'm sure that modelling for a dinky studio like this doesn't pay you much for your services."

"No," the Canadian said slowly, turning to look at Francis with a cautious expression, "Where are you going with this?" the Frenchman smiled, so his muse wasn't an idiot. Just as well. He would have hated for the fierce intelligence in those indigo eyes to be a lie.

"I would like for you to pose for me. I can pay you generously for your trouble," there, the offer was out, the cards were on the table. Of course, he still had an ace or two up his sleeves if Matthieu resisted. But as was said, resistance was futile.

"Pose? Pose for what?" Matthew was looking more and more uneasy by the second. The situation was going to have to be handled carefully if it wasn't going to end up down the shitter.

"Paintings, I can take photographs if you prefer?" Francis suggested tentatively. He mustn't loose him, not when he had just found something that he wanted to paint. Wryly, he supposed that the Americas were a new world after all. Everything was fresh and new. There were even interesting, beautiful young men to paint. Assuming that this situation wasn't a giant cock-up.

"Of me?"

"_Oui_."

"_Naked_?"

"Preferably, but if you are more comfortable with your clothes on - though after seeing you today, I do doubt that. You seem perfectly comfortable in your own skin. It's one of the reasons that I want to paint you," the artist gave his most winning smile, which probably looked more than a little flirtatious.

"And the other reasons?" the Canadian was beginning to feel as though he were being asked to join a circle of sex slaves, and it was very, very worrying. On the other hand, he would be getting paid to have a rather attractive man stare at him for a few hours.

And Francis was attractive, Matthew noted, running his eyes over the shorter man. His shoulders were wide and his chest was broad. And for all that his features delicate and looked like they had been carved, they were still masculine. His eyes were a wonderful shade of light, clear blue, his hair the pale gold of early morning sunshine. The Canuck was _this_ close to physically slapping himself for being so damn whimsical.

"You're beautiful, and you inspire me," the younger man's eyebrows were so high that they could probably have gone into orbit.

"I'm sorry, _I'm beautiful and I inspire you_? You do realise that that makes you sound like a complete lech, right?" Matt backed up a few paces. Francis pulled out a phone, pressed a few buttons and tossed it over to the Canadian, who stared blankly at the two names on the contacts list. Marianne and Alice.

"Pick one and call her, she'll tell you who I am," Sighing, the taller blonde pressed a button and it dialled immediately,

"This?" he gestured to the phone, "_This_ is not helping your cause –"

"_Francis Bonnefoy, what time d'you bloody call this? Because I call it the middle of the fucking night! Someone had better be fucking dead, and it had better not be you!"_

The phone leapt from Matthew's startled fingers like a salmon up the rapids, and he spent a few moments imitating a bear trying to catch said salmon by swatting at the device as it ricocheted off his fingers and limbs. Catching it, he brought it back to his ear, giving the amused Frenchman in front of him the evil eye,

"Ma'am? I'm terribly sorry for waking you up, when I was handed the phone, I wasn't told that you lived in a different time zone. I'm very sorry to have woken you up," he rattled out an apology between the curses.

"_Who're you_?" Alice Kirkland asked, nonplussed.

"My name is name is Matthew Williams. Francis has just asked me to model for him and for some reason thinks that talking to you will-"

"_I knew it! He hasn't quit on me! When I get my hands on that paint-splattered Frog, I'm going to wring his neck! Sabbatical my _arse_! He's fucked off to America to paint!"_ she crowed, sounding positively gleeful at the prospect.

"Actually, this is Canada. But who is he?"

"_Google it!_" there was a finite click as she hung up the phone and Matthew stood for a few seconds listening blankly to the dial tone before it shut off.

"Well?" Francis asked expectantly. He couldn't tell who the young Canadian had called; both women could induce that kind of reaction if roused from their sleep. His sister was feisty, but Alice was just plain rude.

"I called England just to be told that I should Google you," this evening couldn't get any weirder if green- and yellow-spotted alpacas danced the Charleston across the vacant lot beside him.

"Use the phone, it has internet," Francis shrugged, gesturing eloquently with one hand for Matthew to continue. With a concerned frown, he did as he was bid.

**Search Results For: Francis Bonnafoy.  
>Did you mean Francis <strong>_**Bonnefoy**_**?**

**Wikipedia: Francis Bonnefoy:  
><strong>Francis Bonnefoy. Born Francis Jacques de Bonnefoy in Paris, France (14 July 1980), he is a contemporary painter of note. He is said to have changed the face of modern European art with his Rococo, Baroque and Romantic influence. Bonnefoy is best known for his paintings of nude women in the Rococo style. His most famous work, _Place I Call Home_, sold in auction for $ 15 million US … (read more)**  
><strong>_www. Wikipedia. Com / Francis _ Bonnefoy _ (painter). Html_

There was a long silence while Matthew studied the page which had been in existence since 2008. Sure, it was easy enough to fake these kinds of things, but really? Who would want to pretend to be a French painter? Well, a French painter on _sabbatical_ in Canada to try and pick up a med student? Cue the yellow- and green-spotted alpacas. And Cirque du Solei. Any weird, side-show-type people who happened to be in the area could join in too. After a long pause, and his third re-reading of the web page, he finally said,

"You have your own entry on Wikipedia," He surprised himself at how calm he sounded.

"I do, though it's not very flattering," Francis grimaced, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"'Europe's answer to Hugh Hefner'?"

"Grossly over exaggerated. If I lived in a houseful of beautiful, half-naked women, then I wouldn't need to find models, would I?" the Frenchman pointed out, folding his arms in triumph.

"'His favourite pick-up line is "_I'd love to paint you_".'?" Matthew gave the elder man a look of sever disapproval.

"Are we in a gallery or exhibition of any kind?"

"No, but-"

"Are you in any way intoxicated or inebriated?"

"No. But what's that got to do with the price of booze in Britain?" the Canuck demanded wearily, just wanting an answer at this point, wanting to give an answer and go home.

"Then I'm not trying to bed you. Please, I would really appreciate it if you modelled for me. I will pay you whatever you ask. I will pay for your college education until it is complete. Please?"

Matthew stared at him disbelievingly. That was a lot of effort to put into roping some random guy you'd just met into posing naked for him. Choosing his words carefully, he enunciated very clearly,

"You are out of your fucking mind, but-"

"_Mais_?" the Frenchman was on tenterhooks, torn between organising a kidnapping and grabbing the lovely boy in front of him and shaking him by the collar until he gave a satisfactory answer.

"_Oui_," the man known as Matthew Williams sighed, wondering if this was going to be the biggest mistake of his life.

**Francis seems kid of insane. Ah, well.**


	3. Three Hours Is A Fucking Long Time

**Scarlet Path, my darling Germany, DeiDeiArtistic, silverstream27, 1silentmouse, The Voices Talk To Me, Goldpen, Valeada, Catsdon'tcry, .dawn, CyanideHappiness, SafetyScissors, NewBlueTrue, A huge Franada fan, Yagurt, , ilovesmilingfools, Niks565, CommanderApple, GoreHetare, DulcetRipple, Lady Queria and 25 to heroplz; thank you all for your reviews, which encourage, question our parentage and teach me Spanish all at once. Much love, guys.  
>A huge Franada fan, to answer your question: Because she's the only one I can imagine picking up after Francis and then smacking him over the head with his own canvas.<br>Um. This was supposed to be beta'd (SafetyScissors, I love you) but I just never got around to sending this hit.**

**Please note how many sexual thoughts Matthew has. Then count Francis'. **

=oOo=

"Matthew For-The-Love-Of-Fuck-Man-What-Is-Your-Middle-Name? Williams! I am your _brother_. You're supposed to _tell_ me before you prostitute yourself!"

A familiar mix of anger, frustration and embarrassment was heating his cheek. It was impossible not to be around Alfred Jones without feeling that emotion. But they were technically blood brothers, if only by half, so smacking the American across the back of the head in public wasn't totally out of the question. Or, it wouldn't be if Alfred wasn't in Louisiana State University and on a laptop screen which just happened to be in the middle of a coffee shop. On full volume.

There were many times in his life when Matt had wanted to crawl into a hole and die, and mostly, they were Al's fault, but no time more so that now.

"Alfred," he hissed though gritted teeth as he turned the speaker volume right down, "I'm in public."

The American on his screen gesticulated wildly, obviously still ranting about the Canadian's descent into whoredom. Matthew sighed. This hadn't been one of his better ideas, but Alfred did deserve to know, he supposed. He told Matt everything after all; it was only fair that Matt do the same.

**Mattie**: Al, I turned the speakers off. You're going to have to type.

**Hro4eva**: fuk u matt! :[

**Hro4eva**: o wait, ur nu john wl do tht! XD

**Mattie**: For fuck's sake, Alfred, he's a painter. I'm posing for a painting. There will be no fucking. He's going to be fully clothed.

**Hro4eva**: is he gnna paint u like 1 of his french girls~? ;-*

**Mattie**: Funny you should say that, actually. He's French.

**Hro4eva**: Dude. u do no tht u hv no sns of humor, rite?

**Mattie**: Right. And you can't spell for shit. Remind me what you're studying again?

**Hro4eva**: Civil Engineering an u no it. beta than gynecology.

**Mattie**: Diagnostic Cytology, you ass.

**Hro4eva**: still sounds gross

**Mattie**: Fine. But when you get skin cancer, don't expect me to make the diagnosis.

**Hro4eva**: U no im 2 awsum 4 that.

**Mattie**: I am not even going to dignify that with a response.

**Hro4eva**: Good. Because we need to get back on topic. Why are you doing this?

_Shit_. When Alfred started typing in proper English, it was a sure sign that he was using his Hero Voice and was building up to a lecture the likes of which no one has or wants to see.

**Mattie**: Because I need the money, Al. School is not cheap. This guy is rolling in it and he's offered to pay me through the nose to stand naked for a few hours.

**Hro4eva**: How do you know you can trust him?

**Mattie**: I don't. I'm going on blind faith here. I've checked him out on line, and he seems to be an insane millionaire with a paintbrush, but that's about as much as I can come up with. His stuff is good, though.

**Hro4eva**: I'm worried about you. How long are you going for? It's this afternoon, right?

**Mattie**: Yeah. Three-hour session. And I've got hockey before that. I'm going to be wiped.

**Hro4eva**: u pussy matt. ur gna b stndin still. hw hrd cn it b?

**Mattie**: Like you could ever stand dead still for any length of time. And it's fucking hard.

**Hro4eva**: thts wat she said ;)

**Mattie**: FFS Alfred.

**Hro4eva**: u no, 3 hrs is a looooooong tym. He cud ttly raep u an shit.

Matthew looked at the words _Hro4eva_ _is_ _typing_ in italics at the bottom of the screen. He could see his brother, tongue between his teeth as he focused on the keyboard, no doubt composing some new cautionary tale that would astound the Canadian with both its inventiveness and falsity.

**Mattie**: Bye, Al. Chat soon.

He could see Alfred's face as the words appeared on his screen, eyebrows knitted together, his lips forming the words 'mother fucker!' before the screen went blank and the blond in the café sighed, running his hands over his face. That had been an eventful conversation. Emotionally drained, mind shying away from the valid points Alfred had made, he packed up his laptop and picked up his kit, all ready to go to practise and work off his worries.

~====o)0(o====~

The grating scrunch of his rubber-soled running shoes on the gravel driveway was a pale mockery of the scrape of skates on ice, the slick, rough cutting sound of the blades against the smooth, unforgiving frozen wasteland of the rink. The deep huff of his breath was only a faded copy of how panted gasps condensed in the chilled air of the rink. It had been a hard session, breath burning in his lungs and muscles of his legs aching pleasantly. Air always seemed cooler, fresher after a good match or practise. Matthew often felt that he was supposed to be on ice. It was where he felt the most at ease. Whereas on terra firma his lanky limbs would on occasion twist around something – sometimes one of their kin – and cause him to trip or fumble, on ice he was perfectly balanced, perfectly orientated. On ice he moved with speed, grace and skill. On dry land he – on dry land the strap of his bag broke, tipping his kit and sticks over Francis' front steps in a chaotic pile reminiscent of a child's game of pick-up sticks.

"Mother_-fucking, _cock_-sucking _sonofa_ whoring bi_-" the frustrated Canadian began.

"Not talking about me, I hope?" Francis asked lightly, eyes raking hungrily over the young man on his doorstep. His hair, too pale to be considered red and too dark to be blond, was catching the syrup-gold of the early evening light, his face the cool shadows. The tips were still damp from some kind of washing, clumping into thin rat's tails that looked as though they'd been dipped in sepia instead of water. There was a faint flush of exertion in his cheeks, which was fast being overshadowed by a wash of embarrassment at being caught so. It was sweet to think that in a contradiction to his angelic face, his muse had such a filthy mouth. Sugared profanities flowing wine-rich from those cupid's lips and in such dulcet intonation that it barely seemed foul at all, simply a passionate recitation of poetry and nonsense. Matthew could be speaking Hebrew for all the Frenchman cared, as long as he got to paint him.

"Oh," Matthew muttered, abashed, "Er, no. I was talking to my bag. It broke," he added, unnecessarily as he gestured to the glorious mess of hockey paraphernalia. He couldn't take his eyes off of the man before him, backlit by what appeared to be a wall of glass that overlooked a pool and the setting sun, Francis' own hair was catching the light, spinning it into strands of glowing white-gold that tumbled carelessly from the elastic band that held it back to frame the sharp angles of his face. Was he standing there on purpose? Did he know that the clear blue of his eyes was reflected in the pool? That his hair was aflame in the setting sun? Or, like a cat, did he instinctively and subconsciously position himself for maximum visual impact? Either way, he was quite stunning. The Frenchman's elegantly dishevelled appearance of earlier that weak had been drastically altered in four days. The grey he had been wearing solidly had been exchanged for a plain white dress shirt and a well-cut pair of beige slacks, an ensemble that was covered in a rainbow of colours in a quantity any canvas would be envious of. There was a brush tucked behind each ear and though wings of pale blond fell to frame his face, the back was pulled into a high ponytail. Despite what appeared to be Francis' best efforts, there was a cascade of downy hairs pulling away from their restraint and falling in slow motion to rest against the Frenchman's lightly tanned neck.

Matthew wondered as he ripped his eyeballs from the entrancing spectacle of Francis leaning against the doorframe and began to gather up his things, why it was that his new 'boss' of sorts had to be so god damn gorgeous when he also had an alarming amount of potential to be nine different kinds of freak-show. Internally cursing himself, he didn't notice the elder man on the ground beside him until their shoulders bumped. Francis was fingering his tatty old kit bag with a look almost akin to disgust. So maybe there were holes in the stiff, waxy material, and maybe it reeked of sweat, but that was what a kit bag was supposed to do. Besides, the thing was dog-eared and old. Matthew couldn't bring himself to replace the stained red bag, much though it needed it. He'd have to now, though, that strap was completely shot. Disapproving French mutterings and murmurings dripped in coarse abandon from the other's lips as he stuck a paint-stained finger through a hole and wiggled it in a sharp, jabbing, come-hither motion that was about as sexual as road-kill, and yet under the shadowy cloak of innocence lay the mirrored motions of those experienced fingers tenderly caressing a lover, readying him or her or simply bringing the person to completion with his hands.

A shudder caressed the Canadian's spine at that vague, flickering thought. Surely such talented, dexterous fingers could be applied to other aspects of his life, couldn't they? After a moment of stillness, he shoved assorted kit back into the broken bag with more care than the action suggested. The cessation of movement was necessary to forcibly derail that train of thought. That speeding mental locomotive's destination could only be guessed at but it had needed to be pushed from its tracks before it got to Matthew-didn't-want-to-know where.

"So," he drew the word out, feeling awkward, hesitant, "Should we start? Where do you want me?"

On the front steps, where anyone could walk up the long, unfenced driveway and catch us? On the plush carpet of your entrance hall? Up against the wall where we could knock down the sober black-and-white photos of tree-lined streets and people in the rain? On my back on the kitchen table? On my hands and knees halfway up the staircase?

Hopefully the Frenchman would excuse his dirty thoughts for nerves.

"Just through here," was the serene, unsuspecting answer as Francis made an elegant, vague gesture to the space behind him, stepping aside to allow the Canadian through with his bags. For some reason this picture of a young man hefting the cumbersome bag seemed right, the right strain of muscle and stretch of skin, and the artist made a point to ask Matthew to pose lifting something at some point – if he had to kidnap him in order to get him to come again. For some reason he could picture that, a little chloroform on a rag, the strong body of this charmingly honest angel floored. His face peaceful and his hair waving gently across the floor like seaweed on a beach. A mermaid! He should do a study with water when it was a little warmer.

"You don't do things halfway, do you?" asked an incredulous Matthew as he walked through to the next room. There were curtains, veritable swathes, of plush, deep rose red velvet hanging on and over a daybed, covering it in rich folds and shadows. It looked like someone had taken a stage curtain and thrown it over the staircase and its surrounds, creating a cosy, sensual nook for painting.

Facing this nook, there were three, very large, rather intimidating primed canvases. They were arranged in a semicircle. Each easel had a table besides it, one with things on it. A sheet of glass, an assortment of tubes in varying degrees of filth and stain, and a wide range of neat brushes were arranged in orderly rows – a stark contrast to the scattered heap of oils – were set out, along with a few rags and what looks suspiciously like a child's paint-pot filled with green ooze.

"If it's done halfway, then surely it's not done?" the Frenchman smiled absently, picking up tubes of paint and holding them up to his eyes and then looking intently at his model, judging the colours he would use, and then the highlights and lowlights. "Whenever you're ready," he said, glancing up and selecting his brushes. Something big and loose to work in the basics – detail could be tweaked once those were done.

He'd done this a load of times in front of assorted men and women, but as a group, not as a one-on-one thing, and there was something terrifyingly intimate about shedding his clothes, even though Francis wasn't really watching. Matthew felt almost as though he was undressing before his first lover. Nervous tremors shook his hands as he toed off his shoes and kicked out of his jeans. The jacket was shrugged off and his shirt pulled over his head. A cursory tug at his boxers and socks and he was completely bare – save his glasses. As he reached up to take them off, a large hand grabbed his. The movement was gentle, but rather sudden, giving the Canadian a start. In his tension, he had forgotten where he was,

"Leave them," he said gently, tugging insistently on Matt's arm until he dropped it. The younger man relented, obviously Monsieur Bonnefoy liked a challenge, and that suited him just fine.

~====o)0(o====~

Monsieur Bonnefoy was a sneaky bastard, Matthew decided, his back arched and curved, one arm gripping the back of his neck a little harshly. Every muscle in his body was straining unpleasantly against the pose and the dull ache of his hockey practise had become distinctly more pronounced in the time he had been standing, sitting and lying. Twenty minutes each. That wasn't such a big thing, he could stand for twenty minutes when required, but there was something uncomfortable about this that had nothing to do with the physical.

It wasn't that Francis' eyes were caressing his body, drinking in every detail of him and him alone. It wasn't that it was just them two, locked in a frozen dance, the Frenchman moving about Matthew, who presently had his back to his employer. It was, irritatingly enough, because he was wearing his glasses. They felt like a last, wholly inadequate line of defence between his body and the man painting him, and Matthew wished that he could properly hide behind them at the same time as he wished he could just pull them off and face Francis. For the first time since he had started this job, he felt actually _naked_ and the vulnerability of that was not something he was at all happy about.

Sweat beaded at his temple and rolled down his face, dripping onto his chest and working its way down like rain on a window pane. Francis' brush leapt at the opportunity, the strained crease of his forehead, the slightly pouting frown and the way his teeth sunk into his lower lip – still chapped, that needed fixing. The tremble of those strong muscles, the sweat that glistened on his skin, both the back that faced him and the front that was reflected in the carefully positioned mirror, they were so beautiful. No mortal could have birthed him. Matthieu was surely the child of seraphim.

A fallen seraph, perhaps, because surely no angel could look so utterly delicious in his nudity. It occurred to Francis that Matthew knew how to use his body. Those coiled layers of muscle and sinew were perfectly controlled, held immobile by an iron will. Was this beautiful man used to flaunting his body so bravely before others? And yet in this setting he seemed ill at ease? Ah, but that had been Francis' plan from the beginning – to see Matthew confidant was one thing, but to see him feel weak? It was amazing which parts of his body he would try to hide in order to make himself feel safer. The twist of his hips, the duck of his head. The contradictory softness of his strong stomach and the smooth skin and the bunched tension in his back, all of these things added up to a most edible physique. Quick, definite strokes of pale colour and broad washes began to fill in the structure of the Canadians body, darkening the shadows and leaving the places where light caressed his skin almost completely bare. The Frenchman checked his watch. Three poses, twenty minutes each; the first hour was up.

"Time for a break, I think," he said, wiping his hands on a rag and doing the same for his brushes, "Would you like some coffee?" _please come naked, so that I can see the way you move as you walk, the little gestures you make as you usually would, but let me see all of you. Don't hide yourself away from me_. "Can I get you a robe?"

"Yes and yes," Matt grinned tiredly, stretching his stiff arm and rubbing the muscles over his ribs that had tensed for the last twenty minutes. They protested as his fingers gently prodded and rubbed, undoing knots before relaxing and stretching his legs out, unaware of the Frenchman's disappointment. He would usually have brought his own robe, but he'd been so nervous. Matthew wasn't going to lie, he'd been shit-scared. First private job, first time working with a professional, and then there had been Alfred's earlier comments about rape and kidnap and that had kind of made him fear for his life. But Francis seemed fine, and he only had two hours left. Hopefully there would be another break, because he didn't think he could last for another round like that. His body was already protesting. Maybe the next session shouldn't be after hockey? Wait- he was already considering the next session? They weren't even done with this one yet! And furthermore, did he even want there to be another session when he was feeling quite this …uncomfortable?

Well, yeah. The Frenchman seemed nice enough, he hadn't made any untoward comments or gestures – he'd been remarkably professional about everything. And if he was getting paid for it, so much the better. Francis returned with a silk bathrobe in an inky shade of midnight blue. Okay. Did it have to be silk? Did it? Apparently. Shrugging on the 'garment' Matthew followed his beconing employer to a large, chrome encrusted kitchen.

"Please, sit down, rest, you must be exhausted. That was a very difficult pose you made for me, thank you," there was a ringing sincerity in the Frenchman's voice as he smiled at the Canadian and busied himself with the trappings of coffee.

"Well, you seemed to enjoy- um, that doesn't quite sound right – you seemed to _appreciate_ it, and that's my job, so…" he jittered, fingers tapping stiffly against the cold marble of the countertop. Francis laughed. The sound was low and rich as the coffee he was making. And Matthew couldn't help but blush, eyes boring a hole through the stone. In this flimsy – too small – robe, he felt even more exposed than he had when he was completely naked.

"I told you, your body is amazing. I'm quite honoured that you agreed to pose for me," Francis tossed a brilliant smile over his shoulder to the man at his breakfast bar, only causing the blood to rise faster in his cheeks. The coffee was soon enough brewed and set before him, the painter taking a seat by his side on one of the long-legged barstools. Matthew chose to let the comment pass, taking a sip of the dark, caffeine rich liquid, a happy sigh passing his lips.

"So, Francis Jacques de Bonnefoy?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow at the elder man, turning so that he was facing him. The aforementioned Frenchman couldn't help but run his eyes appreciatively over the Canadian. The blue of the silk contrasted wonderfully with the pale tone of his skin, the neck open over that wonderfully firm chest. Francis was struck by the desire to lean over and lick the sweat off of that skin. Of course, that would probably be unethical, as he was intending to pay for Matthew's services. Not to mention that the boy was of unknown sexual orientation and availability. Though he very much doubted that any partner would let a body that they had claimed as their own be seen by the masses. Especially one that looked like that. Not without leaving a few prominent marks of possession. There were a few faded bruises on his muses skin, but none in the size or shape that indicated a love-bite.

"_Oui_, Matthieu Arnault Williams?" he answered with an equally superior expression on his face.

"Wait," another delightful frown of concentration carved its lines into the canvas of his Canadien's face, "My own brother doesn't even know what my second name is. How do you?"

"It was on your student registry forms," a careless, one-shouldered shrug. It had been a fairly simple matter to lay hands on them, though universities aren't supposed to give out information about their students to anyone who happens along. Even if they are pretending to be a concerned uncle wanting to see how his nephew is doing in school….

There was a thoughtful silence as Matthew contemplated the meaning behind those words. Francis had gotten a hold of his student registry forms. That meant that he knew everything about him. The course he was studying. The classes he took. His mother's maiden name. All of it. "Do I even want to know how you go your hands on those?" he asked eventually, voice weary. He was coming to realise that when it came to Francis, the unexpected was fairly par for the course.

"Probably not, _mon cher_," _and even if you did, I would lie_, "Is the coffee to your liking?"

"Yes, thank you," he murmured into his cup, feeling a little better, despite the disturbing news, the coffee happened to be exactly the way he liked it, and he wondered if that had also been on his university application. The Frenchman beamed joyously, simply happy to have pleased his muse.

~====o)0(o====~

Sleep was not something that came naturally to Francis Bonnefoy. As a child he hadn't slept much and as an adult he was no different, often staying awake until the small hours of the morning, painting because that was what he did. It brought him time until the sandman finally deigned to grant him the mercy of sleep. Not that it was much of a mercy. It was often riddled with nightmares and visions of dark terror. Worse than the nightmares were the brilliantly coloured dreams, more colour-rich and fabulous than anything he could ever dare hope to create.

So it was a surprise when he woke up spread across the cream leather of a couch, an arm thrown over his eyes and one leg hooked over the back of the furniture he was lying on. He was still in his painting clothes – that was nothing new. He couldn't count the number of times he had woken up in his painting clothes, sometimes face first in wet paint – that was always fun. It necessitated a shave, and he was rather fond of his beard.

But what had happened? Matthieu. Matthieu had posed for him and he had spent a glorious three hours drinking in his figure, from the moment he stripped –when Matthieu hadn't thought he was looking – to the moment when those hateful garments covered his skin once more and the young man hauled his goods and chattels out the front door and down the driveway. He had sat down on the couch and closed his eyes for a moment. He..

He'd fallen asleep. He'd been blessed with dreamless, nightmare-less sleep for – he checked his watch – nine hours. That was the most rest he'd gotten in one night in… It must be at least two years, and that time barely counted, because he had been under sedation.

Looking up at his canvases, he smiled fondly at the pale Canadian they reflected. Matthew, beautiful Matthieu, strong Matthieu, replicated on canvas for him and him alone. Three precious figures.

"_Merci beaucoup, ma cher_," he whispered, a blissful smile on his lips.

~====o)0(o====~

"Look," the little web of skin between his thumb and index finger resting on the bridge of Matthew's nose. The aforementioned fingers were pressed against his temples, trying to ward off the impending headache. His glasses were pushed up and his eyes screwed shut. In short, the picture of tired frustration, "I'm really sorry, but this is impossible. As much as I would like it to be true, there is actually no way that I don't owe the school anything."

"Well, dear," said the grandmotherly voice on the other end of the phone that was clasped to his numb ear, "You've paid off your school fees in full. And made a sizeable donation to the school library – mostly art books."

"_...I would really appreciate it if you modelled for me. I will pay you whatever you ask. I will pay for your college education until it is complete. Please?"_

Matthew felt his blood run cold, "When you say 'in full' you mean my tuition has been paid off for the rest of my degree, don't you?" he asked, feeling a little bit dizzy. He'd left Francis' with five-hundred dollars in his pocket and a happy Frenchman waving him out of the door. He had thought the lunatic was joking when he said that! What kind of crazy person pays for someone else's medical degree? Was that why he had looked at his student registration forms? To find out how much his classes cost? That sneaky little shit!

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean, dear," the woman's smile was audible, "There hasn't been some kind of mistake, has there?"

"No, but I need to have a word with my friend about his recklessness with money," Matt said as politely is possibly through gritted teeth. His college tuition. In full. Where the fuck had Francis gotten that kind of money? And to just throw it away on a man you just met? There had to be medication for that. Wishing the lady on the other end of the phone a pleasant day, the young Canadian hung up the phone and picked up his coat, shrugging it on. It was familiar and cool, the lining worn soft with age.

Opening the door, he barely got two steps outside before falling flat on his face in the corridor of his apartment building. There, right outside his door was a royal blue hockey bag. Good quality, well made… and it had 'WILLIAMS' printed in big white letters on the side. It looked really smart and professional. That was nice. Thanks, Francis. There was a note pinned to the fabric:

_A little thank you, cher._

_-F.B. _

Either he was receiving messages from Facebook, or Francis Bonnefoy was a very dangerous man.


	4. Can You See Francis In A Pimp Hat?

**Goldpen, DulcetRipple, Rani of KuchNahi, 1silentmouse, DeiDeiArtistic, Bleach-ed-Nat-tsu, The Voices Talk To Me, my dearest Germany, Valeada, Aulophobic Clarinetist (you poor thing), Luckysee12, Lady Queria and Nightowl572. So many familiar names! Thanks to the regulars for sticking around and the newbies for joining! **

**In case anyone's interested, the Dirty Thought count for chapter 3 is as follows:**

**Matthew: 8  
>Francis: 1<strong>

"He's just some guy I'm working for part-time," Matthew said irritably, chomping on his French fries and trying to think of them as anything but. He'd tried to return the bag and the money, but Francis wouldn't hear of it 'It was a gift, Matthieu! And I only did as I said I would'.

"Dude," the man across from him raised an eyebrow over his sunglasses, "There's an actual word for that; _pimp_."

"Francis is not my pimp!" the blond whined, smacking his head onto the Formica table top. His friend just laughed; Gilbert Beilschmidt was not a man known for taking a lot of things seriously.

"He buys you nice things, he pays for your school fees and he gives you money to see your dick. You have gone from bro to man-ho faster than I can drink beer. You have got a _pimp_."

"He's _not_ my pimp!" Matthew was downright ashamed of how childish he sounded in that instant, but he wasn't going to own up to that. Francis was not a pimp. He'd been nothing but nice and he hadn't done anything untoward while the Canadian had been stripped down to his birthday suit, so really, what grounds did Gilbert have? Aside from the very valid points he's just made?

"Fine then; he's your sugar-daddy," the albino gave a dismissive wave of his hand, his attention focused on his girlfriend, who had just joined them. Erzsébet Héderváry sat herself down in her boyfriend's lap, one arm slung around his shoulders.

"_Mattie_!" she said in mock outrage, "You have a sugar-daddy and you didn't tell me?"

"_He's not my sugar-daddy_!" the Canadian hissed, bordering on hysterical as he plopped his face into his hands.

"He kinda is, bro," Alfred piped up. He'd been surprisingly quiet on his screen, but that was probably because he and Gil didn't really get on. At all.

"You," Matt pointed an accusing finger at his laptop-bound brother, "You called me a whore in front of a crowded coffee shop. You have nothing to say about this. Don't make me turn the speakers off; you know I will."

The American gave a noncommittal shrug and waved at his webcam, "Whatevs, Matt, someone, turn me to the vampire?"

"He's an _albino_," Erzsébet sighed, turning the camera to face her and the man on whose lap she was seated.

"Again, _whatevs_. Yo, German."

"_Prussian_!"

"That's German for, 'douchebag,' right? That's not the point. You take care of my baby bro, okay? Make sure he doesn't get molested and shit, kay? I trust that pimp about as far as I can throw him. Pretty far, if I could actually lay hands on him," Alfred trailed off, biting his lip thoughtfully. He could probably toss Francis a fair distance if he wanted to…

"_For Fuck's Sake_!" Matthew snapped, standing up violently, his hands flat on the table as he glared at his friends, even turning Alfred around to watch, "He's _not_ my pimp. He's _not_ my sugar-daddy. He's actually a really nice man, even if he is creeptastically generous. And just a little bit weird. He never once came on to me and he was really professional. So there. Lay off of him, okay?"

The two people and the one on an LED screen on the other side of the table exchanged wicked grins.

There is a scene in Spongebob Squarepants (no, Matthew didn't watch Spongebob, why do you ask?) where Spongebob suspects that Squidward likes Krabbypatties and his whole face slinks up his body. It's not possible for a human to make that face, but if they could, then Erzsébet would have been making it right then. It gave Matt the creeps.

"You like him, don't you, Mattie?" God, she even sounded like Spongebob. Not in that high, kind of ridiculous voice that Tom Kenny put on, but it was the same smug I-Know-What-You're-Trying-To-Hide face and tone of voice.

"No I-" resistance was futile. The Hungarian had a nose for relationships, and she appeared to have sniffed out his crush, "Okay. Maybe. It's not like he's bad-looking, and he can paint really well. It's a bit weird when he paints me though. I feel like he's looking at my soul, not my body. It makes me feel really uncomfortable, but at the same time… I don't know. I kind of like it, even if he is weird," he shrugged as though to negate everything he had just said. The Canadian turned away, barely daring to look at his friends. There was a pile of word-vomit on the table between them, one that he wasn't exactly proud of, and it would be interesting to see how the others took it. Nervously, he glanced back at the unholy trio.

"That's so _sweet_. You two need to make little gay babies," Erzsébet sighed, her arms folded on the table top to cushion her cheeks. Matthew was pretty sure that she knew that was impossible, seeing as how she was in her third year of med school, but that might have been something that they glossed over in her education.

The other two were severely less impressed.

"Your man-card. Hand it over. Now," Gilbert demanded; his snowy palm open and waiting.

"How did mom _not_ know you were gay?" Alfred asked, an eyebrow raised.

Matthew's hands curled into gnarled claws, a blurred chimera of 'I want to strangle someone' and 'I feel the need to gouge someone's eyes out'. Usually he wouldn't put himself through dealing with this many people at once; he'd been happily Skyping Alfred when Gil and Erzsébet had rocked up and made it an awesome foursome. Matt, generally a recluse who avoided too much socialisation that involved active participation, was not entirely comfortable with the situation.

"Alfred, you're still a virgin; shut your fucking mouth. Gilbert, I can and will beat you to the ice next time we play. Erzsé, that's physically, anatomically and biologically impossible, and I fear for the future of medical science if you're at its helm. Thanks, guys, it's been great, I have a job to get to, now if you will excuse me," Matthew said, dropping some cash on the table to cover his fries, picking up his bag and storming towards the door.

"Whoopsie," Erzsé sighed, a pout playing on her lips, "I think we over-peopled Mattie again. He gets so nasty when that happens."

"You're a _virgin_?" Gilbert demanded, turning to face Alfred with a gleefully surprised expression on his face – similar to that of a child who just received a puppy.

"I-I'm saving it for someone special, okay?" though the camera quality wasn't exactly top notch, it was easy to see the American's humiliated blush.

"How long do you think it'll be before he realises that he's left his laptop here?" The Hungarian asked, turning her boyfriend's attention from his newest piece of blackmail material.

~====o)0(o====~

For some reason, Matthew found a vague form of comfort in getting ready for his appointment with Francis. Though he had little inclination to deal with anyone else that day, it wasn't like they were going to be making oodles of conversation. He wasn't even going to have to be particularly social; he just had to stand there and look pretty.

It wasn't that he couldn't be social when he chose to be; just that he chose to be social for short, sporadic periods of time. Matthew made no secret of the fact that no matter how much he may like them; he had a very low tolerance for people.

So standing there and looking pretty while Francis was lost in his ideal little world, really was his ideal job. That and being in the back of a lab somewhere where he could still help without offending anybody. The more his people-patience wore thin, the testier he got.

Tossing the key on the counter, he dropped his bag beside it and went to have a shower.

As the hot water beat against his skin it occurred to Matthew that people who likened having a shower to like being in the rain have either never actually had a shower or lived in an area with unenviable rainstorms. The water was on too hot and the blinding drops of water stung and burnt his skin until it was red and numb, impervious to the fiery blows.

The pressure bowed his head as though the hand of some higher power rested on his crown. His hair darkened to auburn and water dripped from his eyebrows, his nose, his parted lips and chin, much more like rainfall than any showerhead could emulate. Tiny, clear gems clung to his pale lashes, dying them umber and wetting them with false tears. Hotness coursed down his cheeks, dripping like rainforest's condensation onto his chest.

Matthew looked down at his body; really looked, wondering what it was about it that Francis liked so much. _It's beautiful_. Well, sure, he wasn't unattractive, but he got the feeling that that wasn't quite what the crazy Frenchman meant.

It was … Serviceable. Strong enough for his purposes. Sometimes he got hay fever and muscle cramps, and he put on weight quickly if he didn't watch himself. But not everyone was so athletic, he supposed. He did play a fairly physical sport. Gilbert was more of a gymnast, Alfred was kind of beefy – the product of too many burgers and weight-training – and Erzsé was just plain soft, even though she played tennis when she could.

It wasn't a bad body, as bodies went, he mused, looking at the long, taut ropes of muscle in his forearms and the pale, creased and folded landscape of his palms. The scored lines of his fingers, the whorls and swirls of his fingerprints. The indigo traceries of veins beneath the thin armour of his soft, vulnerable skin; all of this was his. His to protect and his to cherish; to use and abuse as he saw fit. What was he, exactly? What part of this machine, this vessel, was Matthew? What little spark of human life was housed in this galumphing great hunk of flesh?

Was he in those pale, course-skinned palms? The span of those large hands? Or was he in the pull and flex of the muscles that gave this prize piece of bio-engineering movement? Was he in the pulse and rush of blood though the web of veins that formed a chaotic street-map of his body? The highways of arteries, the main roads and the thread-like little veins that brought life to his fingertips and toes. Was it in the broad plain of his chest? Or deeper? The dull, wet thump of his heartbeat that sounded his intention to keep living for another finite moment? Was it the constant movement of his lungs, a function so taken for granted that he didn't even have to think to be able to do it that made him who he was? Was it that ingrained will to survive that made him a human being, and more specifically Matthew Williams?

Who was he, even? He liked sweet things, and spicy things. He liked the cold and he liked playing hockey. He liked helping people, but didn't think much of people themselves. He had a few friends, a bratty half-brother and an inappropriate crush-like thing on the man who was paying him to stand around naked, even if he was a total creeper.

Even Matt found it odd that he liked Francis. It was just that… He was spontaneous. Whimsical. Free. If he felt like doing something, then he did it. He could be so civilised and then he would do something crazy like paying what must have been a good wad of cash for the pleasure of having a young man stand naked in his house. Creepy, but oddly endearing.

The water was cold by the time he got out of the shower, and he was ever so much more confused than when he started, but, in a mixed up way, he could almost begin to see what Francis liked so much about him. Maybe it was because he was as artistically inclined as tree bark that he didn't fully appreciate the world as seen by a madcap Frenchman, but that was okay. He was Matthew, after all, whatever that meant, and Francis was Francis. If he had meant to see things the way Francis, he'd have been born as Francis.

Matthew nodded his head as though that answer satisfied him. He had a strong body to take him where he needed to go and maybe he took it for granted a lot of the time, but he still had it, his p- it took so much to stop himself from thinking the word 'pimp' – _painter_ seemed to enjoy it. What more did he really need for this job? Francis was just a really nice French painter, who – who had known his middle name from his student registry forms before he had even arrived; there had been no time during the session that he could have checked that. Which means that he would have had to have paid the university before Matt had even gotten to his house, let alone gotten naked. That was a mind-boggling amount of faith in people. It was nice to have someone have that kind of faith in him, in his word. Someone who whole-heartedly believed that if he said he would do something or be somewhere, he would.

It was a faith that carried with it the pressure of holding it up, but somehow that wasn't a responsibility he minded. He wanted Francis to have that faith in him.

~====o)0(o====~

Sweet, endearing Francis was waiting for him, excited as a puppy. He was pacing back and forth across the front steps when Matthew arrived, a sketchpad in hand.

"Matthieu!" he called happily, seizing the Canadian by the shoulders and kissing him enthusiastically on each cheek, "You're here! Let's get started!" Bemusedly, Matt wondered if he was late, but a quick glance at his wrist told him that he was actually bang on time. Huh. Mildly shell-shocked, he followed the manically joyous Frenchman through to the living room and stripped down, making sure to remove his glasses this time. He would face Francis without hiding today. Today he wouldn't wonder which way he was wanted, he would take his own initiative and make his own way.

Francis sighed contentedly as his muse relieved himself of restrictive clothing and sit down, his shoulders high and careless, his spine curled lazily over, head tipped back to show the proud lines of his jaw and neck. Long legs stretched languidly before him and smug indigo eyes regarded Francis challengingly,

"How long do I have to hold this for?" Matthew asked, wondering where Francis had got to. There were no canvases today, so he could only assume that the sketchpad that the Frenchman had been holding was the canvas for today.

"Only a few minutes. Fifteen at most," the soft French accent came up just beside him, surprising the Canadian no end. What surprised him more was when a warm, gentle hand lifted his chin to look into Francis' kindly smiling face.

"Wait, what're-" his question was cut off by something warm, sweet and something-not-entirely-unlike damp being pressed to his lower lip and dragged slowly across it. Then it happened again, from centre to corner. His top lip received the same treatment, the warm, damp thing gliding insistently over his lips as he watched the bright blue of Francis' eyes. Normally his first reaction would be 'Get the fuck away from me!' But there was no malignant intent in those eyes, just fondness. Appreciation and happiness. Negativity seemed to be a totally alien concept to the Frenchman.

Mutely, Francis pressed his finger to Matthew's lips, rubbing gently over cracks and splits in the soft pink skin, again and again, working whatever it was gently into him. Through the loud heartbeat that numbed his thoughts, the Canadian registered the scent of strawberries – his favourite. Not fake, waxy plastic strawberries, but sweet, fresh, real strawberries.

Taking Matthew's hand in his, the Frenchman's rough-skinned fingers curled around the Canadian's long, pale ones pressing a touch-warmed plastic cylinder into his palm.

Opening his fist, he looked at the dwarfed piece of plastic. It was an inoffensive white with pink cursive along its length informing him that it was lip balm. A tiny cartoon strawberry confirmed its flavour. Completely confused, his earlier cockiness drained and able to feel every centimetre of his exposed skin, Matthew looked up at the retreating Frenchman,

"How did you know I like strawberry?"

"I didn't," Francis answered simply, "I chose it because _I_ like strawberry," he smiled, rubbing the fruit-scented residue from his finger onto his own lips and Matt blushed.

~====o)0(o====~

The rest of the session – quick poses this time – would have gone one without a hitch had Matthew not forgotten to turn his phone off before the started. Halfway through the final hour, his phone started chirping loudly, announcing a call. Internally cursing all telephonic devices to the depths of hell, he sighed. He was in the middle of a rather precise standing pose and he wasn't sure if he could remember exactly how he had been.

"Are you going to get that?" Francis asked, barely looking at his paper, his eyes feasting on the tendons of Matthew's strained neck, the taut muscles of his arms and the twist of his head.

"Ah, would you mind getting it for me? Just put it on speaker," there was nothing anyone could say to him that couldn't be said in front of Francis. The Frenchman got up and fished the phone from Matthew's jeans pocket, tapping a few buttons until a voice exploded from the tiny device;

"_Yo! Matt! How's it going with your pimp? Has he molested you yet?"_

The silence that greeted that statement was profound. Francis was staring curiously – and more than a little hurt – at Matthew, who didn't know whether he wanted to sink into the ground or just die, had an odd mixture of red and white in his cheeks that is usually found in Raspberry Ripple ice-cream. Taking the silence as disapproval at his choice of words and a sign that he had still not been forgiven for earlier that day, Gilbert took it upon himself to make the situation worse,

"_Okay, okay, fine. _Herr Gott im Himmel_, you're stubborn. He's a very nice man who you have a massive-ass gay crush on, now how's everything going? You left your laptop at the café."_

The hurt mostly removed itself from the Frenchman's face, alchemically transformed into outright curiosity. As though Matthew's face wasn't enough of an answer. A vicious shade of red was burning in his cheeks as he looked from Francis to the phone with an expression of utter horror settled over his features.

"I-I … Gilbert," he croaked, "You're on loudspeaker."

It took the albino on the other end a moment to realise the implications of that statement,

"_Oh_, Schieβe."

"Yeah, uh, thanks. Look, I'll call you later, okay?"

"Kay. Good to meet you, Francis," Gilbert said with forced cheer.

"Likewise," the Frenchman said quietly, hanging up and resuming his seat in front of Matthew, who was frozen in the pose, humiliation locking his muscles in place.

"I am _so_ sorry about that," the Canadian whispered hoarsely, pursing his newly-balm'd lips. What had Gil been thinking?

"_De rein_," Francis said, not looking at Matthew's face but rather at the drawing he had been doing and the back up to check the position and resuming his sketch. There was definitely a self-satisfied little smirk in the corner of his mouth and Matt closed his eyes, wishing himself anywhere but where he was at that exact moment.

~====o)0(o====~

Even though he had waited until he was almost at the end of the long gravel straight to make the call, Francis – who had been leaning out the window to watch the way Matthew's clothes creased around his body as he moved – could still hear him perfectly clearly, and it made him smile just a little wider, a faint red tinge in his own cheeks,

"_**GILBERT BEILSCHMIDT, I AM GOING TO FUCKING MURDER YOU!"**_


	5. Voulez Vous Avez Sexuels Avec Moi?

**Zenna95, DulcetRipple, Valeda, ilovesmilingfools, Aulophobic Clarinetist, Yagurt, DeiDeiArtistic, Nani-chan777, Bleach-ed-Na-tsu, Nightowl572, my wonderful girlfriend, 1silentmouse, GiveUpResistance, Mochi Clayton, Catsdon'tcry, Utaria, Luckysee12, , Lady Queria, lumaluma, The Voices Talk to Me, Countmewiththedreamers, IliveinIthlien, Commander Apple, ashely12chan, KajiMori, WhitePrincessPrussia, VirtueOrange and GermanHeart. Damn. Love you all dearly! **

**God, writing this was like giving birth. Only without having to push a screaming human the size of a large cat out of my vagina. I once heard a baby compared in size to a watermelon. My only comment on this is that either you Americans have fucking small watermelons or fucking **_**big**_** babies.**

**I love how everyone loves the plot when I'm just making this shit up as I go along. My apologies to everyone reading The Pursuit Of Happiness, but A Picture's Worth was hanging on my sleeve saying, 'mommy, play with me! I love you, mommy…' in the cutest voice.**

**Also, because this seems to be heading that way; 100****th**** reviewer gets a one-shot, as always.**

For someone so white that he was practically Day-Glo, Gilbert was a surprisingly difficult man to track down.

Difficult.

But not impossible.

The albino sat hunched over their regular table at their regular little café just a ways off of campus, hiding in his hood like a member of some sort of satanic cult.

"I must be out of my fucking mind," he sighed, looking at the man across from him balefully.

"And why would that be?"

"Because," the hood of his jacket tipped back, throwing a spectacular shiner into sharp contrast with the unbroken snowfield of his face, "I get the feeling that Matt isn't too inclined to forgive me for my little fuck-up the other day. If he catches me; I'm a dead man."

"An avenging angel," Francis murmured delightedly. He could picture perfectly a snarl of rage on that sweet face, the curl of his lips, the lines of anger cut around his mouth and eyes. Fist raised, the other hand clenched in the front of the albino's shirt. The skin over his knuckled stretched tight.

"An _angel_?" Gilbert barked derisively, "Take those beer-goggles off! Matt may be a nice guy, but he's no angel. You see this face? He did this to my face. You see this mark? He made this mark. The mark of a _lunatic_. One _slightly_ inappropriate comment and suddenly I'm top of Canada's Most Wanted list. How is that fair?"

"'Slightly inappropriate'? You called me Matthieu's _Baron_! I have half a mind to black your other eye," Francis said darkly, eyeing the man across from him calculatingly, "Do you really believe your friend could do such a thing? You have what I believe you German's call a _Backpfeifengesicht_." Francis was quite sure that his Matthieu was no _escaladeu de braguette_. How could that pure young man possibly be so low? The bold, abashed way he held himself. He was so proud of his body and yet so shy to show that tentatively confident posture. It occurred to Francis that the word, 'coquette,' seemed to fit Matthieu perfectly.

"Honestly? I don't know him that well. Matt kind keeps himself to himself most of the time. He'll have these weird little outbursts, but then he'll go all quiet," Gilbert's cheek twitched and he pointedly ignored the comment on his personality and the accusation of being German.

"So _shy_!" Francis cooed delightedly, sketching the outline of the Canadian's nose into the thin, beige foam of what this shoddy little hole-in-the-wall had the audacity to call coffee.

"So_ciopath_," the self-proclaimed Prussian corrected with a derisive snort.

"_Tirebou chonnant_, cher," Francis said dryly, "Now, tell me more about Matthieu."

Gil sighed and rolled his eyes. Matt sure could pick em. "Well, for starters you should try your French out on him, not me. He's bilingual, I can just about manage English a lot of the time. And unlike you, he can't draw to save his life. I think that's part of the reason he likes being drawn. Or painted; whatever the hell it is you do."

A bright smile lit Francis' face, and Gilbert wondered guiltily exactly how much trouble he had caused his friend.

~====o)0(o====~

Once more perfectly on time, Matthew knocked on the white-painted wood of the Frenchman's front door. He hadn't run into Gilbert since there little _discussion_ about the Prussian's behaviour had escalated (thankfully off campus). He had a couple of bruises himself – Gil had gone to military school after all – but he hadn't let him close enough to mark his face. That had been broken enough times for Matthew to know how to avoid it.

"Bonjour, Matthieu~!" the Frenchman sang from the other side of the door, flinging it open.

"Hi, Fra- _Oh, Sweet Jesus!_" The Canadian's hands flew to his face to shield his eyes, face alternating between snow-pale and blood-red with alarming speed, "Uh-" he stuttered, not daring to open his eyes, "D-do you need a minute? Or… A pair of pants? You did know that I was coming today, didn't you?"

"Of course I did," Francis couldn't keep the smile off of his face. It was so sweet how Matthieu was so comfortable with his own body being on display and yet so obviously ill-at ease with others doing the same.

"Then, uh, why – dare I ask – are you naked?" the Canadian had lowered his hands, but his gaze was fixed determinedly at the ceiling.

"Because today," Francis' smile could melt snow, "_You_ are going to draw _me_."

Matthew's eyes dropped to stare blankly at the Frenchman, who in his opinion had to be at least three kinds of _fucking insane_.

"Wha- " The Canuck was not even allowed the time to finish his sentence before being dragged inside and shoved gently towards the 'studio'.

"Quick, quick!" Francis sang happily, "Your easel is over there. I put out some things for you."

"Look, Francis," despite his own words, Matthew was still looking fixedly at the air a good two foot above the Frenchman's head, "Uh, I don't know where you got the idea that I can draw, but I can't. Really. Not even stick figures. The best I can give you is the cells I see through a microscope."

"Rubbish, chou," Matt's words were waved away by a careless hand as he was steered to the easel, "Everyone has the potential to draw. It's just practise. See, here's charcoal, this one is black, and this one is white, and this is grey. Now these are pencils, the higher the B, the darker it is. Make sure to use lots of different tones and keep the point sharp."

The Canadian stared blankly at the sheet of newsprint clipped to a board with two manky bulldog clips.

"Don't look at the paper; look at me. Draw what you see, not what you think you see." Finding those instructions to be less than utterly unhelpful, Matt did his best to follow them. Taking a deep breath, he looked at Francis. It hadn't really been any pretention of bashfulness that kept him from staring, but rather the severe disinclination to salivate on the carpet.

Oh, shit, this was going to be an interesting lesson.

His eyes glided over Francis' head, the way the sun caught in his hair, lighting it with burnished gold. The line of his jaw and the scruff of his beard up to the smooth curve of his lips, which were quirked into a faint smile. The way his nose came to appoint, the way the bridge sloped. Was this the way that Francis saw the world? Full of shadows and lights, full of curves and corners and shades of colour? The coppery green pathways of veins, the way the hair on his arms, so pale, caught the light, adding another dimension, the way that his nipples pebbled, darker than the surrounding skin. Firm, fleshy, terracotta-red. What would Francis' reaction be if they were pinched? Kissed? Licked? Bitten? The rise and fall of the Frenchman's chest drew Matthew's eyes lower, and lower, over his stomach, the angles of his hip bones and the soft swell of his hips down the coarse golden hair to where the Frenchman's member was resting against his leg, a faint rosy flush colouring it.

Finally, Matthew saw the appeal those cougarous women found in distorting his own manhood. The temptation to stare was overwhelming, but he forced his eyes down, over Francis' thighs, his knees, his calves, the indentations and rises in each, the arch of his foot, visible in the way it was turned, the oddly delicate way his ankle was turned. Matt couldn't help but notice how neat Francis' toenails were. Pedicured, which struck him as an odd thing to think, but he still couldn't help but notice it.

Done, he turned to the easel. It was worse than he expected. It looked like a spider had shat all over his page, "It looks like shit," he declared, quite taken aback but how hideously discordant this sheet of childish scribbles was.

"Oh?" Francis said mildly, getting up and walking over to have a look. It occurred to Matt that the Frenchman was perfectly comfortable walking around buck naked and the Canadian really wished he wasn't. Not when the artist was leaning across his body, close enough to smell his shampoo and feel the heat radiating from his skin. Close enough to lean down and run his lips over the elder man's shoulder, close enough that if he were to take a step forward, he would be pressed flush to the Frenchman's back. His hands would be free to leave charcoal streaks down Francis' sides, to dig into his as he ground their bodies together-

"_Matthieu_," the platinum blond cooed in a half scolding, half praising tone that made the medical student's blood run south, "This is not shit. This is lovely! Look at the sensitivity of your mark-making, your use of tonal line; it's beautiful." Francis gushed, happy that despite his protestations, the Canadian wasn't completely useless.

The Frenchman was rather surprised, though, by the hooded, hungry look in Matthew's eyes when he turned to share his delight.

~====o)0(o====~

The look that Matthieu had given made his skin tingle. It sent shivers down his spine even though the Canadian had long since left. It was midnight, and the peaceful sleep that the younger man seemed to bestow was elusive. Fierce, buzzing energy coursed through his system. His fingers tapped, his legs crossed and uncrossed themselves without his volition. Francis sighed heavily through his nose. He needed to go out. He needed to get out of this house. He needed to get this burning, roiling lust out of his system. Particularly before he saw that lovely boy again.

The way baggy clothes stripped away until that glorious body was laid bare before him, just for him. The way the light would shine on him, glowing and glimmering on soft lines of musculature.

Just that one look.

Just that one hungry, wanting look had Francis pacing the floor, wondering what would happen if he greeted Matthieu with a kiss to the lips and tugged him through the doorway so that they collided with the wall, shedding clothes as they tripped up the stairs, laughing breathlessly.

Francis needed to get laid.

~====o)0(o====~

"Erzsé, you're driving," Matt scolded lightly over the lip of his beer bottle as he watched his friend bolt a dark-looking drink in a large glass.

"Please, Mattie, it's just a soda," she rolled her eyes, "You can try it if you like." The Hungarian offered her glass and gave the Canadian another please once over. Normally he wouldn't be wearing clothes this tight, but Erzsébet insisted that when they went out together he should dress 'decently' (read: like a two-bit hooker in the middle of a fabric shortage). The shirt was some kind of stretchy poly-cotton-rayon thing that he could feel growing onto his skin, and it was a good thing he didn't wear these jeans very often, or else he'd have to have his legs amputated. But apparently he looked good, and that was all he really needed right now.

Well, that and Erzsé, who was his designated driver and the only person he knew who was willing to go to a gay club with him (and hold down Gil while Matt beat him.)

Tipping back his head and sucking his tongue into the bottle neck to finish his beer, Matthew set the glass down and re-applied his lip balm. It had become a nervous habit, something to do with his hands when he had nothing to do; pulling the little white tube from his pants pocket, turning the pale stick out of its hiding place and tracing the outline of his mouth with it. Closing the cap and popping it back into his pocket, Matt paid for his drink, shaking his head at Erzsé to show that he didn't want to try her drink; he headed off towards the dance floor, which was packed.

Bodies swayed and thrust in discordant undulation, limbs twining, bodies melding and caressing in a heaving, panting, sweaty mess. And that was exactly what Matthew wanted. He wanted to work his way into the middle of this madding crowd and find someone he could take home and fuck until the sexual frustration that Francis' name alone seemed to spark was completely spent.

~====o)0(o====~

The music throbbed through the floorboards and the bar wasn't even visible through the throng of people bumping and grinding to the overpowering beat. UV lights flashed on teeth, clothes and eyes while strobe lights whirled, making the whole room look like bad stop-motion animation, disorienting Francis for a moment as he stood in the doorway.

Briefly, he wondered if he was getting too old for this kind of thing. But one of the blessings of good genetics was that he didn't look his age, so he didn't have to feel like a creepy old man when he went to a bar like this, full of writhing youth.

~====o)0(o====~

So close to giving up and removing himself from the thick air at the centre of the mindless, dancing mob, the UV lights caught on pale blond hair, making it flash like lightning across the evening sky. Man or woman? Considering the number of men at the club, probably a guy. Unthinkingly, Matthew's hands reached out and settled over the stranger's hips, pulling them gently backwards against him. His hands proceeded to explore thighs, stomach, chest, pushing and pulling the now-confirmed man forward and back, rocking them to the bass that thudded through them.

The shorter man's arm mover up, snaking it's way around Matt's neck at the same time as his leg pushed between Matthew's so that his as was grinding directly against the taller man's crotch. A pleased huff of air escaped the Canadian's lips. Together he and his new partner rocked themselves hard, swayed through never-ending remixes of popular song, undulated to trance music. Matthew knew for a fact that the man rubbing himself against his crotch was able to feel his erection. The way he was moving was only aggravating the want, the need to find a wall and take this cock tease hard against it.

Leaning down, he let his lips wander over the other's shoulder and up his neck, teeth and tongue caressing the lobe of the blond's ear. He spoke just loud enough to be heard over the thundering base

"I want to take you home."

Francis shivered.

**Sorry this has taken so long, guys and gals. I'm quite sick at the moment. I have a bacterial infection in my throat (cannot speak, swallow, eat or breathe without extreme pain) and a staph infection on my face (I'll spare you the icky details there; it's quite revolting). Lots of bed rest and writing for me~**

**RutheLa**


	6. Thinking Is A Very Dangerous Pastime

**Deidara Crack Remix, Guest, PKAquaFlame, Guest, TangoAlpha, The Voices Tale To Me, anon, yourpurplesocks, Rhee-chan, Meandsushiroll, tmmdeathwishraven, frenchtwist, KajiMori, xXxthenextbookwormxXx, GiveUpResistance, Lady Queria, CommanderApple, DeiDeiArtistic, Aulophobic Clarinetist, Zenna95, SmarmyMarmalade, SaraBarnes, Luckysee12, DulcetRipple, Goldpen, Yagurt, WhitePrincessPrussia, lumaluma, and 1silentmouse. Holy crap cakes, guys, I love you so much, thank you for wishing me better. **

**The long-awaited chapter 6! I'm not overtly fond of writing smut, so I hope that it doesn't show too much. Hopefully I'm getting my writing back on track now. I should have some new stuff winging your way by the end of the week. **

Outside the club, the music still thumped. The bass line reached up through the tar and tangled at their legs as they stumbled onto the pavement. The air was cold out here, sharp, and it burnt in Matthew's smoky lungs.

One quick text and Erzsé was free to go home whenever she felt like it. Seeing as Gil was out with friends, that was probably late.

"So what do you say, beautiful?" he husked, lipping along the neck in front of him, "Your place or mine?"

A pair of arms wrapped around the Canadian's waist and the stranger's lips pressed against his thumping pulse, only increasing the frantic tattoo of his heart against his ribs, "Your place is closer, cher," was purred against his skin. Matthew's breath froze in his lungs. The familiar voice, the comforting husk of French, the pale blond hair, the knowledge of where he lived.

"Francis?" he asked, scarcely daring to believe that he had picked up the man that he actually wanted to sleep with.

"You would prefer someone else?" the Frenchman asked, bright blue eyes searching as he began to pull back.

"Actually," Matt paused, considering. He didn't want things to get awkward between himself and Francis, but at the same time, he didn't want to let this opportunity go to waste. And his place was closer. What was the harm? The Canadian's arms wrapped around the Frenchman's waist, pulling him close, "I wouldn't. Did you drive here or shall we catch a cab?"

"I drove. I didn't come here to drink," there must have been a reason that those words made Matthew's mouth go, dry, but his thoughts were skipping like a scratched disk so he chose not to think of one and simply let Francis lead him to his car. It was a nice car – to be expected – but the Canuck couldn't focus on that as he settled in the passenger seat. All he could feel was his pulse throbbing in his veins and the purr of the engine thrumming through his body. Francis. He and Francis were going to have sex. A clinical sentence if ever there was one, but hopefully true enough.

"This isn't going to-?" Matt began tentatively.

"Matthieu, mon coeur," Francis' words, low and husky, stopped that train of thought dead in its tracks, "Perhaps we should leave thinking for morning, oui?"

"Ouias," he murmured his agreement, barely able to believe what was happening. But they had about five minutes before they got to his building, and the roads were quiet and on the theme of not thinking… Matthew twisted in his seat so that he faced Francis, undoing his seatbelt and reaching across so that his fingertips brushed across the front seam of the Frenchman's trousers.

"Quoi-?" his words were cut off by a throaty moan as Matthew's fingers flexed and he stroked Francis' cock from half-hard to fully erect. The buzz of a French zipper was muffled in the hot air that had filled the car while they weren't paying attention. It didn't take much time at all for Matt to lean over and free the other's member from the confines of his pants.

"Matthieu, what are you doing?" Francis breathed; his knuckles white where they gripped the steering wheel.

"Not thinking. Drive slow," by this point, the Canadian's warm breath was caressing the head of the Frenchman's cock, and it was a small miracle that Francis hadn't ploughed the car into the nearest lamppost. Slowly, the blond in the driver's seat eased off the gas pedal until the vehicle was practically crawling along the quiet road.

"I like the way you don't think," Francis gasped as he felt Matthew's tongue lave over the head of his cock, the tip pressing into the slit playfully. So full of youth and vigour, and mischief, the Frenchman thought, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he fought to keep his eyes open under the barrage of pleasure. The Canadian only hummed his agreement around the flesh between his lips, chuckling at the painter's shaky breath, which only made him moan.

Who would have thought, thought the barely coherent Frenchman, that they owner of this beautiful, confidant body would be so forward-shy. How easily he had accepted it, almost as though he had wanted it. Thoughts flashed back again to that predatory, hungering look in the Canadian boy's eyes as he had drawn him. Matthew didn't appear to notice when the man he was sucking off parallel parked and switched off the engine. Francis took a moment to admire the assault to his senses. His fingers gripped the warm, stiff leather of his car seat, which clung to his skin, pushing against him almost painfully. Glazed eyes drank in the sight of soft, red-blond waves pooling against the fabric of his trousers, glowing in the syrup-gold of the street-lights. Teeth scraped gently over the shaft of his member, tongue pressing constantly along the underside, moving to tease the head. Francis wasn't sure when his fingers had woven themselves into the Canuck's hair, loving the way the light turned the fiery strands copper, glimmering and beautiful like pirate's treasure at the bottom of the crystal waters of the Mediterranean.

"Matthieu," his voice was rough with sex and want, "Would you like to invite me inside?" Slowly the Canadian pulled of the Frenchman's member, and Francis vocalised his approval. Matthew's blow-job lips were damp and red, and a smear of precum clung to them, only to be licked off by the velvet tongue that the painter could remember quite clearly doing sinfully good things to his now-cold cock. Indigo eyes that so often reminded him of flowers, skies distant mountains or other such natural wonders were now hooded and hazy with lust. Pale lashes framed his eyes, curtaining them. The Canuck's hands kneaded the Frenchman's thighs; his stance crouched, as though Francis was cornered prey.

"Please, Francis," alternating puffs of hot and cold air hit the Frenchman's still-exposed cock, making him moan, "Won't you come inside?" Pale fingers carefully re-zipped his pants, mindful of the proud erection that they now housed.

They fell up the stairs, laughing quietly and breathlessly. Francis' back collided with the wall on the first floor landing, muted noises of appreciation echoing in his throat as Matthew pressed their bodies as close as they could be without the deficit of clothes. Legs hooked and tangled together, tripping them up as they bucked and ground together, laughing and gasping for air and pleasure.

The second floor had Matthew falling over his own feet as Francis' teeth explored the tendons of his neck, nibbling and nipping. A trail of red marks lit his skin, drawing forth moans as they bruised.

The third floor saw them sliding along the wall, hands roaming ceaselessly, teasing, pinching, groping, squeezing and stroking until they were both seeing starbursts of electric pleasure, both too hard and wanting as Matthew struggled with the lock on his door, cursing the key and its ancestors to an eternity in the fiery pits of hell at least twice before he managed to wiggle the lock open and have the both of them tumbling through the door, pushing it closed with a bang behind them.

The apartment was pitch black, eyes not yet adjusted to the silver streaks of moonlight that splashed their starry illumination through the gaps in the curtains. Knowing the layout by touch, Matthew lead the way, guiding Francis with stolen kisses and encouraging touches until the backs of his knees hit the bed and he stumbled backward onto it, and the Frenchman followed suit. It was brighter in here; Matt had left the curtains open, and the painter couldn't see the Canadian's eyes for the reflection on his glasses. With reverential fingers, the Frenchman removed them, setting them gently aside, watching Matthew's eyes as their heavy breathing mingled in the wanting air. His pupils were huge, a combination of lust and darkness made the younger man's eyes seem a thousand times wider, and oddly innocent.

"First time?" Francis asked breathlessly, his whisper too loud in the anticipating quiet.

"You're joking, right?" Matt shot back, a tilt-silly smile on his lips as his fingers wove themselves into wavy, pale blond hair, prompting the Frenchman down for a warm, slow kiss, not as needy or fast paced as they had been. The sounds of lips and heavy breathing filled the room. No more wine-glass rink of toasting enamel. No more childish giggles, as though they were hiding from a teacher or a grown up. Now they were grownups. Matthew's fingers tweaked and pulled at the buttons of the Frenchman's shirt until it was hanging open and he could touch the pale tan he had so admired, the darkness making his skin look darker than it was, and Matthew's paler. Francis' hands pushed and tugged at the Canadian's t-shirt, liquid-latex made fabric. It wasn't until Matt half sat up and pulled it over his head that it conceded defeat and left the pair to explore each other's chests.

Francis was in a state of absolute euphoria. The skeletal structure, the flesh, the muscles, the skin he had dreamt and drawn for three months now was under his fingers, begging to be touched and explored. His nails scraped over the indentation of muscle, raising a red trail where he had marked, inciting hissing breaths and quivering muscles wherever he went. Matthew's hands pushed away the stupid shirt, raking down the Frenchman's back and earning a groan as he pressed his hips up against Francis', the fabric of their combined trousers an irritating obstruction.

Someone's – neither of them was sure – hands moved down, fingers leaving lingering touches as they popped buttons and tugged at zippers, the swish and crumple of material as loud as a waterfall compared to their ragged breathing. Almost reluctantly, Francis sat back, his eyes devouring the man beneath him. The pale arms looped about his neck came first. The Frenchman's thumb slid down Matthew's index finger, a tiny explosion of hot and cold detonating where their skin met. Fingers outlined the creases on a broad, pale palm, the callouses from hockey practise and where he held a pen. Fingers pressed into a wrist, feeling the rounded end of an ulna, caressing the dark path of a vein down over darted muscles, cords of sinew taut as piano strings.

Matthew's lips parted to speak, to object, to question, but words crumbled and faded as that gentle, exploratory touch glided from the crease that the inside of his elbow up over the muscles of his upper arm, the curve and slope of his shoulder. Fingertips pressed into the skin of his back, outlining the very tip of his scapula. Thumb pressed against the underside of his collarbone, fingers against the top, tugging slightly, leaving fingerprints on the skin as though the bone could be removed. A warm sensation followed like that. Matt's skin was burning with and for contact. Those same torturous fingers danced their way up his neck, pausing on the marks Francis' mouth had made before caressing the line of his jaw, the bow of his lips.

A small smile creased Francis' mouth; his Matthieu had been using his lips balm. The skin was soft, smooth, plump, he couldn't resist another kiss; still faintly strawberry-flavoured. The Canadian's lips commanded his attention, refusing to let him leave but for breath, so the Frenchman's hands continued their journey blind, feeling the shiny-smooth skin that puckered and stretched in raised welts or glassy expanses on that beautiful, pale chest. He could place every nick, scratch, cut and graze. He had them memorised. He knew the ice-smooth patch of skin on Matthew's ribs, almost indiscernible from the rest of his skin but for its texture and the way the scar tissue gleamed in the light. Probably a burn. He knew the bruises on the Canuck's stomach from last week's practise when one of the other players had gotten a little aggressive, and he knew the bruises from his fight with Gilbert. Curious fingers pressed at firm skin until he found the marks from memory alone, and Matthew's body arched into the touch with a guttural moan.

A soft smile lit Francis' face, almost tender, where it not for the mischief alight in his eyes as he pushed the same spot with a little more force, enjoying a similar reaction.

Trousers and underwear were shoved away, and the Frenchman's smile became positively feral as Matthew's legs drew up and apart, the expression in his eyes daring the painter to take him. Something small and something slightly larger hit Francis in the chest, bot things cold. One was a condom, its packet ice-edged and ice cold. The bottle of lube that landed on the Canadian's stomach was the same, and he shifted uncomfortably, bucking his hips against Francis to be rewarded with a hungry moan.

"Paint me later," Matt groaned, craving contact, "Fuck me now."

"No," Francis laughed quietly, voice feeling oddly unused to use. He wasn't going to fuck this beautiful man, spread like a fallen angel on the bed sheets. Why waste an opportunity to further worship his muse's body. That glorious body. Francis wanted to capture every detail on canvas, cartridge paper, the sidewalk, anything that could be drawn on should display to the world the soft stretch of his skin, the arch of his ribs, the way his fingers clutched at the covers as the Frenchman's fingers entered him, teasing him, stretching him open in the most intimate of ways, only to fill him completely. Having Matthew pant his name, back arched, muscles straining as blunt fingers scored their way down the Frenchman's back, building a slow pace, their hips moving in perfect tandem. Slow, steady, torturous thrusts that scorched away thought and reason, leaving only need to be satisfied, the hunger for pleasure. Soon enough, they were at the edge, gasping for breath between starving kisses as the heat of orgasm broke over them. Air gone along with their bones, Matthew lazily removed the condom from Francis' spent cock, disposing of it in a wastebasket.

The Canadian's hands were hesitant, the time of not thinking passed and the time for thought returned, as they gripped the Frenchman's shoulders, pulling him in closer, so that they lay in each other's arms, each watching the other breathe.


	7. No Morning After Pills Here

**Guys, don't get me wrong, I adore this story, but it's **_**so hard to write**_**. There's just… something. I have to be in a very specific mood to be this flowery for this long. But this is kind of winding down. I can't predict any serious angst and I can't really see it having more than another four or so chapters left in it at the absolute maximum. Hang in there, gang, I'll try not to keep you in suspense that much longer. Though this is hardly a suspenseful story. Anywho;**

**A huge thank you to: lumaluma, Milady, Valeada, debesterijken, KhepriRa, WulfyFang3, Guest, Lady Queria, Lillipnillilip, yaoilover4lyfe, Aulophobic Clarinettist, xXthenextbookwormXx and BBTMiyazaki. And, as ever, a huge thank you to woodbyne, who posts this, lets me hack her account and never fails to help when I'm at a loss for words. You may have noticed how much slower I am now that she's not here to slap me upside the head whenever I stop typing. **

Morning was a mellow affair, soft floods of pale yellow sunshine dripped from the fresh green leaves of the trees that grew in the small garden that the apartment building owned. In an inversion of normality, Francis awoke to find himself painted in sunshine and tangled in someone else's sheets. A someone else who was still lying beside him, quietly waiting for him to open his eyes. A half-smile flickered across Matthew's lips as the Frenchman's bright blue eyes met his.

The Canadian had been awake for a while, that much was obvious. His breath was touched with mint and fluoride, and his unruly waves weren't sleep-mussed, but rather damp from a shower. He was fully dressed. A pity, Francis had been looking forward to seeing that. On the other hand, Matthew didn't appear to have slept all that well if the pronounced circles under his eyes were anything to go by. Matthew didn't move as the Frenchman's thumb moved to stroke the hollow under his eye, sweeping away a pale eyelash that had fallen against his cheek. The Canuck's eyes closed briefly, a tiny frown present on his forehead until Francis brushed that away too.

"You want to talk, I understand," the elder sighed, a patient smile on his lips, "May I use your shower?"

"It's through there," Matt gestured, a half-strained smile present on his own face. He waited until the springs of the bed protested Francis' departure and the naked Frenchman had padded his way into the Canadian's bathroom. It was only then that Matthew allowed himself to flop face down onto the bed and groan softly into the rumpled bedding. What had he done? Well, aside from get into bed with a man who… who… it wasn't that he didn't _want_ to be involved with Francis, just that he knew he _shouldn't_. There was so much wrong with this picture. There were gaps in age, social status, levels of experience, in pretty much everything. And it certainly didn't help that his bed smelt of sex, reminding him of reasons why he should be involved with Francis. He was spontaneous, friendly, warm, beautiful, kind, generous, and very good in bed if the subtle ache in his spine was anything to go by. Flashes of last night moved over his conscious, like magma, destroying all other thought. His hands fisted in the sheets, not white-knuckled as they had been when pleasure assaulted his every nerve, but still trembling slightly in the wake of memory.

The shower shut off and Francis walked out, flushed from the warm water and towelling his hair dry, completely nude and blissfully unaware that Matthew's eyes were hungrily appreciating the way his half-cocked hip drew the Canadian's attention to his ass, lamenting – and kicking himself for it – when the Frenchman covered that delightful derrière with his slacks.

"Shall we talk now?" Francis' fingers pushed the last button through its slit, looking expectantly at the man on the bed, who raised himself on with his arms as though he were doing a push-up. Francis had never before held so much hate towards a piece of clothing. The way those baggy folds obscured lines of muscle and sinew. He could predict the way Matthew's arms would strain, the lines of tension across his chest and back, but he was greedy. He wanted to see them, touch them, taste them. Everything he could do. Francis wanted to know the boy's body completely, every fold of skin, every freckle, every angel's kiss. He wanted to know how Matthew would grow and change, how he liked his eggs, if he knew how to tie a bow-tie properly, his favourite smell. Everything. He wanted to know everything and share everything with this captivating Canadian youth.

"Maybe someplace else?" his perfect muse suggested, an abashed expression and Francis nodded. Away from the scene of the crime, and the heady scent of sex that lingered in the air.

"Of course, I know a wonderful spot," Francis grinned, "Breakfast is my treat."

~===o)0(o====~

It was a wonderful spot. The mellow sunshine hadn't abated, but had rather kicked up a gear into being actually hot, and Matthew was celebrating his decision to wear a t-shirt, while Francis was rolling up the sleeves of his dress-shirt and opening another button. The air was heavy with dry warmth, and large, glossy black bumble bees bobbed heavily from blossom to blossom of the frothy, lavender wisteria that encircled the little alcove they were sitting in. The restaurant was nice, in a white-picket-fence kind of way, and the flowers were certainly lovely. It was a beautiful place, but the tension between them made it slightly uncomfortable. A pale, sweet-pea-shaped flower fell to the glass table top, quickly followed by a fat bumble bee, so dusted with pollen that it had changed colour from blue-black to golden yellow. Matthew watched the bee intently, not sure of what he wanted to say now that he had a chance to say it.

The waiter had come and taken their orders, and now they were simply waiting. It was the perfect opportunity to speak, and deciding that maybe it was better to just let the words fall out of his mouth, Matthew raised his head to speak, only to realise that the black sling bag Francis had brought from his car contained not only his wallet, but also a sketchbook and a tin of coloured pencils. The gentle scratch of soft lead on rough paper was soothing, mingling with the arrhythmic buzz of the insects around them.

"Talk," Francis instructed, glancing down at his page and then back up at Matthew.

"Well, firstly, I'd like to apologise for my behaviour last night. I was…" he paused, not sure if he could phrase his words in a way that wouldn't make him sound like a teenager, which in all fairness, he still was. "It was inappropriate, given our working relationship."

"You were horny, _cher_," Francis said mildly, selecting another pencil and tossing any sense of decorum the conversation may have hoped to hold straight out of the metaphorical window. "There's nothing inappropriate about that. You are not nearly the first model I've slept with. Though usually those are women I paint because I want to have sex with them, rather than the other way around."

Matthew scowled. It was one thing to be given freedom of speech, but a whole other to have the entirety of the previous evening dismissed on the grounds that he was just Francis' model.

"And you make love to all your models, then?" he asked acerbically. That had been more than just sex. The care with which they moved, the heat that had slowly built between them until neither could move without drawing a gasp from the other. That had been deeper than a one-night stand, and it was definitely not a quick fuck.

"Certainly not," Francis' flippant tone suggested the awareness of one who knows that he is treading on very thin ice and intends to prance across without it splintering beneath his feet.

"Just the majority, then?" Matthew's voice was still sour, still miffed at being lumped in with the Mongol whores who had been set to canvas before him.

"No," now Francis was starting to sound irritated and he set aside his sketchpad, leaving a half-rendered sketch of the Canadian's face and the grape-like clusters of flowers open to the sunshine, "Not at all. Matthieu, please understand that it was never my intention to sleep with you. I had intended merely for you to model for me. You are so beautiful, I couldn't help but want to paint you."

"Oh." Matthew grimaced slightly, largely at his own rudeness and partially at his own ineloquence. So Francis hadn't intended for them to gasp each other's name in climax. That was… almost, if not more, of a put-down then being told that he was just one in a long line of many. Probably wouldn't be the last, either. "What… that is, if you don't mind me asking, what were you doing at the club last night?"

A slight blush touched his cheeks, and the Frenchman bowed his head slightly, "Ah, well, I suppose there is no harm in knowing. Much the same as you, I should imagine. I was looking for some… short-term companionship. You see, I had spent my afternoon posing nude before the most beautiful young man I have ever come across. I was frustrated."

A half smile tugged at Matthew's lips as the waiter appeared, depositing an iced coffee before each of them. A croissant with ham and smoked cheddar for Francis, and one with salmon and cream-cheese for Matthew.

"I was in a similar position," the Canadian admitted, poking his drink with a straw and finding it to be too thick to drink that way unless you happened to be a vacuum cleaner. Setting the straw aside, he picked up the glass and took a sip, succeeding in getting fluffy, spray-can whipped cream on the tip of his nose and in a thick moustache along his upper lip. He was about to break out into giggles he felt a hand at his chin, pulling him gently forward until his and Francis' faces were in very close proximity. So quickly that Matthew wasn't even sure that it happened, the Frenchman's tongue darted out, stealing the cream off his nose, and then slowly, ever so heart-poundingly slowly, that same, wicked tongue drew across the Canadian's upper lip, removing all traces of cream and making Matthew's pulse throb.

Francis pulled back with a smirk on his lips, sucking traces of sticky sweetness off of them. The younger man's face was brick red.

"You were saying?" The Frenchman prodded with a hooded expression, and Matthew scowled.

"I was saying," he said firmly, "That that was inappropriate. Okay. Cards on the table; I like you, you know I do. You're great in bed, you've been nothing but nice to me when really you don't know me from a bar of soap, and we have some common ground to build from. I'd quite like to carry on with what started last night, but I don't want this to be some kind of paint-and-fuck fling. If we're going to keep… seeing each other, then that's fine. If you don't want to, that's cool too, it's your call. But if you don't want to then you can take your money back, and I won't model for you anymore. It would be too awkward. "

"Your whim is a cruel master, Matthieu," Francis protested, but not heavily, more like he was seeing if the Canadian would fold.

"It's not a whim. It's a practical course of action," was the mild rebuttal.

"Hmm, I prefer whimsy over practicality, as I'm sure you've gathered," The Frenchman sighed, poking at his own coffee with a straw, "And I have never really been one to favour steady relationships," _Well,_ Matthew thought glumly, _that's it. Gig's up_. "_Mais_… You are intriguing, and so beautiful. I would be the worst kind of stupid to let you pass me by. I am quite enamoured with you, after all."

_Erzsé's going to have a field day with this_, Matt thought, half resignedly, but not really meaning it at all. The Hungarian could go as ape-shit as she liked. A lopsided smile pulled at the Canadian's lips, and he stuck his index finger into the cream of his coffee. He had to purposefully avoid looking at the cool, sticky-sweet whiteness on his finger, lest it remind him of the cum he had washed off earlier. He was going to have to change those sheets. Matthew brought his finger to Francis' lips, covering them in cream. A lazy grin touched the Frenchman's mouth as the younger man leant in, tongue darting out to lick his lips clean, sucking on them, teasing, before settling into a proper kiss; soft, warm and gentle before parting, lips lingering with a contented hum.

"I have class," Matthew said with a sigh, reluctantly pulling back, a brief grimace flashing across his face, "But I'm free later if you'd like to spend some time together?" It was a tentative hope, maybe the first brick of a relationship rather than a one-night stand trying to be more than it should.

"I could pick you up after class?" Francis' smile was radiant, making the Canadian's internal organs wiggle in nervous anticipation and his stomach regret breakfast.

"I have a set task for hub, so I have to get that out of the way, but I should be able to stop by around seven, is that alright?" it wouldn't be fair to Francis to let his grades slip; the Frenchman was the one bankrolling this endeavour, after all, "I'll pay you back for breakfast after class, but I really have to get going."

"Hub?" the painted asked, a look of mild puzzlement on his features, "And I absolutely will not hear of it. It's not a crime to spoil one's lover, is it? I'll swing by and pick you up. It'll be good for me to get out." Once again that charming smile had returned, confusion set aside, and Matthew thought, not for the first time, that Francis Bonnefoy was a very dangerous man.

"Human Biology; Hu B." A brief roll of his eyes and another lingering kiss and the Canadian stood to leave, Francis' fingers lingering on his cheek, "Of course it is, but I somehow doubt that you'd stop, even if I asked. I'll see you later then," he chuckled, half jogging, half skipping down the mint-green path and out through the white picket fence that surrounded the restaurant, closing the gate and offering a jaunty wave.

Watching the loping stride of the Canadian's retreating figure, Francis smiled quietly to himself. It was truly a wonder that the man, his muse, who captured his attention so thoroughly was similarly entranced with him. Looking fondly down at the Matthew in his sketchbook, he ran his fingers over the smooth paper, bringing it briefly to his lips and letting the scent of cartridge paper and pencil dust fill his nose.


	8. This Is The Worst Surprise Ever

**Zenna95, The Voices Talk to Me, Milady, bertiebert, xXxthenextbookwormxXx and brokenangel6, thanks for the reviews, guys! I'm procrastinating cleaning me room, which I haven't done in almost a decade. Also, it was my birthday on Saturday, and I had a brownie and a phonecall from milady. **

**Life is good!**

"You can't afford to be slouching in Hub, Matt," Gilbert said idly, leaning back in his chair, feet on the table and hands behind his head while the Canadian slumped over the table, half reviewing his notes and half eating french-fries.

"M'not slouching," Matthew grumbled, even though he was draped over the Formica like a table cloth.

"You were looking straight through the prof. Keep that up and your grades will drop. Has the unresolved sexual tension between you and Monsieur Picasso started to get to you that much?" The German said, snidely, collapsing his posture to elbow the Canadian in the ribs. Matt responded by whipping his hand out and slapping the other. He wasn't sure where he had hit, but judging by the undignified yelp, it had hurt. The blond gave a half smile,

"I wouldn't exactly call it _unresolved_ sexual tension," he said, a little smugly, but his tone of voice flew straight over Gilbert's head.

"Yeah, it's unresolved sexual tension. Believe me, I've listened to Erzsé give enough lectures on this to be a fucking expert. Oohing and ah-ing and standing buck-arse naked in front of the guy you want to be boning counts as 'UST'." The Albino waved one of Matt's fries around dramatically to make his point.

"Gilbert. My ST no longer U," the Canadian sighed, making a feeble attempt to steal back the potato chip.

"Whoa, whoa, you got laid? Up high, Matthew Williams!" the German grinned, holding out a pale hand, waving it excitedly. "C'mon, don't leave me hanging!"

"I'm not going to high five you, Gil, my back hurts," he sighed, kind of wishing that he had just stayed in bed with Francis this morning, but he did have a set task in Hub, and he needed to go over a couple of specimens in the Pathology building, or he was never going to pass the exam.

"Aw, _maaan_! You played bitch. You don't _deserve_ that high five," the German grumbled, retracting his hand and wrinkling his nose, "What kind of a man are you, letting some other guy stick his dick up your arse?"

"The kind that appreciates having the best sex of his young life with a very attractive man."

"Gay," Gil snorted. He didn't mean if offensively, but Matt still didn't like the German's attitude. Which was why he had snooped his way into the perfect comeback. It was pretty much the same argument every time, but it always riled Gilbert enough for him to not fling the word around casually for a month or two.

"And you aren't?" Matthew said flippantly, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Gilbert flushed burgundy red and started tripping over his own words.

"_Ach, nein, Ich_- No! I'm not! _Das was_- One time, _verdammt!_ A devil's threeway doesn't count! It was a threesome!"

"No, _your girlfriend_ had a threesome; _you_ had a gay experience," Matt grinned, prompting the albino to poke him in the small of the back, making him wince and moan of pain. "_Crisse_, Gilbert, if you touch me there again you will lose an arm!" the smile he had been hosting dropped clean off his face, replaced by a snarl. His back hadn't hurt that much this morning, but after a few hours on a rock-hard lecture theatre seat, it was aching like a bitch, and frankly, his ass wasn't feeling much better.

"Oooh," Erzsébet cringed as she joined them, throwing a sympathetic glance Matthew's way, sitting beside Gil and handing him a packet of fries (not before donating a handful to the Canadian, much to her boyfriend's protestations), "Well, I take it you got lucky. What happened after you wandered off? All the gory details!"

"_Bitte_," Gilbert's eyes widened almost comically, "_Nien_! No gory details!"

"No, Erzsé, no gory details," Matthew chided mildly, "I saw a good looking guy, and we danced for a while-"

"What did he look like?" The Hungarian asked eagerly, her chin in her cupped palms, as innocently delighted as a child at story time.

"Five-ten, well built, blond hair, about the same length as mine, blue eyes. Nice ass," he rattled off the points he knew she would be interested in. All except one.

"How big was his cock?" she asked, and Gilbert sagged onto the table, burying his head in his arms. But not before he snaffled back the fries Erzsé had donated to Matthew; who was presently blushing too much to either notice or care.

"We went back to my place," he answered, neatly avoiding the actual question.

"How big? On a scale of one to ten, one being microscopic and ten being, 'it hurts so good."

"I didn't ask."

"I know you got a pretty good feel. C'mon, Mattie~! Two little words~" the Hungarian cooed, hoping that Matthew was either still post-sex happy or too sore to do anything about her prying. Getting up and storming out would be difficult, after all.

"_Very satisfying_. Are you happy? I'm not going to go into specifics with Gilbert around. He might start lusting after my boyfriend's crotch monster," the Canadian sniped, glaring at the both of them from where his chin was resting on the table top.

"A _monster_!? You lucky boy, Mattie!" Erzsé trilled at the same time as Gilbert growled out,

"It's not gay if there's a girl involved!"

They paused, eyes narrowing as they turned to look at each other, and the German started backpedalling, slightly afraid of having said the wrong thing, "We were just talking about that one time, you know, we, with Roderich – I can't believe you told him, by the way – and he was poking fun at me for it-"

Gil stopped speaking and turned his suspicious gaze on the Canadian across from him.

"What do you mean, your _boyfriend_? The sex can't have been _that_ good," he said slowly, and Matthew slowly sat up, lips pursed and eyes wide as he realised his little slip up.

"Uh- yes it was. I should be-" Matt started to ease himself out of the seat, only to have Erzsé shove him back down and his phone start vibrating. Grabbing at the conversational life-raft it provided, the blond grimaced in pain, "Scuse, I need to take this. _Salut_?"

Matthew froze, his cheeks red and a stupid little smile all over his lips, "_ç__a va bien. __Et toi? __Pourquoi_? _Je aime toi de embrasser. Non, il n'y pas de mal_. Oh, _ah bon_?" he rolled his eyes, "_Ouais, Ouais, à bientôt, Francis_."

"What did Francis want?" Erzsé asked, drawing a circle on the table with her fingertip.

"Just to remind me that I'm going to see him later," Matthew shrugged nonchalantly, stuffing the device back in his pocket.

"You're going to pose with your back like that?" the Hungarian asked concernedly. There was a reason she was specialising in paediatrics. Gilbert was less moved.

"I'm calling bullshit," he said, slapping his palms on the table and leaning back, "_Bullshit_!" he yelled, loud enough for the rest of the cafeteria to hear him, but no one really paid any mind. "You forgot again, didn't you? Or is '_I'd love to kiss you_' part of every conversation you have with your pimp?"

Erzsébet's jaw dropped.

_Fuck_.

Matthew had indeed forgotten that English was Gilbert's third language; the first being German, the second being – God damn it – _French_. Erzsé, dear Erzsé, Matt could fool with a few well-placed French words. Gilbert, on the other hand, he could not.

"No, not bullshit," the Canadian said stubbornly, "He was asking if we were still on for tonight, but he was also telling me that he had a surprise for me. And…" deep breath and take the plunge, "As of this morning, we're dating. The sex was _that_ good."

After what seemed an age of her mouth hanging quite worryingly open, Erzsé drew a deep, loud breath, but Gilbert clamped his hand over her mouth before she could make a sound.

"_Liebe_, we're in public," he reminded her cheerfully, waiting until she nodded before letting go.

"_Oh my God, Mattie that's amazing I'm so happy for you_!" she whispered, flapping her hands and yanking the Canadian into a hug.

"_Ow, ow, my back_!"

~====o)0(o====~

"_Bonsoir_," Matthew grinned, feeling dizzy with the headlong rush of a new relationship as he buckled himself into the passenger seat of Francis' car. He'd had a painkiller earlier and the pain in his back had been reduced to a tolerable twinge.

"_Bonsoir_," the Frenchman chuckled, leaning over for a chaste, if lingering, kiss. The Canadian laughed quietly, desperately trying not to remind himself that the last time they had been in a car together, he'd given Francis road head.

"A little birdy told me you were in a surprising sort of mood?" he was hoping it didn't show, but Matthew'd been wracking his brains since lunch to try and figure out what the surprise might be. It was horribly frustrating, and curiosity was absolute murder.

"What a clever little bird," Francis murmured, pulling up the long gravel straight to his house, "Though I suppose it's not really much of a surprise. Or at least it won't be in a moment."

"Anticipation is going to kill me," Matt complained playfully, hoping that his smile would coax the Frenchman into spilling the beans.

"Ah, we can't have that. I was just wondering, though I realise this is a little backwards as we already have a relationship, if you might like to have dinner with me tonight?" The proposal was as sweetly backwards as everything else they seemed to do together; naked before sex, sex before relationship, relationship before courtship.

"I would love to," the Canadian said quietly, the inside of the car suddenly feeling pleasantly intense.

"I recall something else you said you would love to do," Francis teased, his voice soft in the thick quiet that surrounded them.

"Hmmm," Matt hummed against the Frenchman's lips as he leant in for a chaste kiss, "I think I remember that, too. There are a lot of things I'd love to do, but we're having dinner tonight, and as I recall, desert comes last."

"Then by all means," Francis' bright blue eyes were alight with honest, ignorant sensuality. The kind that drew Matthew in and had him tumbling out of breath and delightfully light-headed into some kind of emotion he couldn't quite name but wanted to experience none the less, "Let's eat."

It was almost novel, the Canadian thought, given that he was in all technicality still a teenager, to find himself in a proper, grown-up relationship with a proper grownup. As much as Francis, what with all his whimsy and careless spontaneity, could be called an adult. It was nerve-wracking, and nauseatingly exciting how giddy he felt. The charm o first infatuation, he supposed. It would soon wear off. But this was only the feeling that Francis had given him in the months prior amplified by its reciprocation, so perhaps it wouldn't fade entirely? Maybe it would settle, and stabilise into … something that Matthew was hesitant to call love, but hopeful all the same.

They paused at the door, whispered words and muted laughter carrying on the cool warm air until witticisms degenerated into snickering at dirty jokes and they were both leaning against the door, somehow both dreading and longing for it to open.

That's when they heard the voice inside.

Quietly, Francis slipped the key into the lock, leaning on the door so that it would swing open soundlessly.

"Call the police!" Matthew mouthed, eyes darting around, on the verge of panic. They were about to confront a possibly armed criminal after all.

But Francis just shook his head, his mouth set in a thin line.

In the middle of the alcove that Francis usually painted in, there was a huge canvas, two metres tall and maybe three across. It was daubed with cool blues, greys and muted sepias, and it took Matthew a few minutes to recognise his own face as it must have looked the previous evening; lips parted and swollen, eyes hazy with pleasure and his whole face governed by an expression of wanting. Only his face. The picture was unfinished, but it stood wet and glistening on the easel, casting aside canvas upon canvas of Matthew in whatever pose either of them had thought suitable at the time. They lined the walls in varying degrees of completion. Some nude, some not. One of Matthew's favourite was one Francis had done of his back. He'd just been admiring the sunset, leaning on the door frame when he'd heard, 'Don't move a _muscle_!' from somewhere in the depths of the house, and had proceeded to stand like that for another three quarters of an hour.

However, it wasn't the legion of barely covered Canadians that really held Matthew's attention. No, it was the little blonde woman in the middle of the room, pacing as she barked orders into a mobile phone. She looked like a school-marm; matronly blouse, crisp black pencil skirt and red, horn-rimmed spectacles. That her long hair was done into two, thin pig tails threw off that impression though, making her look a little more school-girl than the lines around her mouth suggested.

"Yes, yes, that's what I've been telling you! The bastard was in some wretched snowy backwater painting his latest bit of arse! I can count at least thirty canvases here! In three months! I know~ He's going to make us a mint! Oh who cares, if we throw enough money at him, I'm sure he'll agree to change his name and have a little nip and tuck." She paused to look up at one of the first pieces Francis had done of Matthew and whistled softly, "Not an unattractive lad," she said appreciatively, turning around and spotting the two francophones in the doorway, "Lars, love, can I call you back, the man of the hour has just arrived! Hello, Francis, dear, I found your hide-a-key," Alice Kirkland said primly.

"_Bonsoir_, Alice," the Frenchman sighed, suddenly seeming a lot older than he usually did.

"And this must be your lovely model, charmed, I'm sure. Now, Francis, darling, how soon can you have this lot polished so I can ship them off to the Tate? Bit of a pain, dear, sodding off to the frozen North to paint a boy. Why you couldn't have found someone on the other side of the Atlantic, I will never know. No offence, dearie, it's just quite the inconvenience having to explain to customs why there are a three score naked young men going on board a transatlantic flight. Whoops, it's Lars again, I have to take this," and quick as a flash, she was off again, ranting into her mobile phone, leaving the two men standing shell-shocked in her wake.

"Francis?" Matthew said hoarsely, wondering if he thought was happening was really happening, and if it was okay to faint if it was.

"Oui?"

"This is a _horrible_ surprise."


	9. Two's Company Three's A Ménage Trois

The table was set, there were candles, there were roses and the food was delicious. The whole atmosphere of soft gold lighting and the heavy scent of soup-bowl sized blossoms were straight out of a romance novel. In fact, it was, by all counts but one, a perfect date.

And that count was sitting in between Francis and Matthew with a bottle of beer, chatting animatedly about the gallery and the paintings that they were going to sell.

"Really, Francis, I think it's your best bet, what with this many nudes in the collection. It would be a good idea to look for a private collector rather than trying to fob them all off on a gallery or on various buyers. It takes most of the slog out of the exhibition, too. You just have to tailor it to the tastes of the richest collectors. And It would probably help if you were there Martin," Alice added, turning her forceful personality on the Canadian.

"Actually it's-"

"So anyway, I think that maybe we should go for one of the big European buyers. I know the American's are all about art these days, but I honestly can't see anyone on this continent buying thirty naked paintings of the same bloke – lush as you are, darling – but I can see Braginsky going in for it, though you might need to touch some of these up for him, make them brighter, and the what'stheirfacesagain… The Vargas'. They're very big on nude-"

"Absolutely not," Francis said abruptly, setting down his cutlery and fussing with his napkin, while Matthew stared at his empty plate, the knife and fork neatly coupled and set at an angle across the crockery.

"Pardon me?" the Englishwoman said, her smile never faltering, and the Canadian suspected that it might not be as sincere as was her intention.

"I have no intention of selling any of these paintings, Alice. _Particularly_ not the nudes," the Frenchman's tone brooked no argument. His face was set in a stony expression that Matthew found to be at odds with his personality, and his first instinct was to try and make that face go away. However, in the tense air between the two old friends, it didn't seem to be his place to do so, or even to be there. Feeling trapped and impotent, he glanced from man to woman, hoping for some kind of resolution and finding none.

"Francis," she seemed to be speaking through grit teeth, "You are a _painter_. That is what you _do_. You paint pictures, and I sell them."

"Firstly, Alice," the conversation had the same air about it like a summer's day that was souring for a thunderstorm. The atmosphere was heavy, too hot and oppressive, buzzing with a crackle of static that would become lightning, raining down in sheets and forks over the combatants, "I am on sabbatical, I have no obligations to anyone at present. Secondly, it is Matthieu's body, it is his decision whether or not the paintings are sold," just as Matthew was about to open his mouth and wave his palms and say, '_leave me the hell out of this_,' Francis continued onto his next point, "_And thirdly_, as his lover, I take strenuous objection to my Matthieu's body being paraded all over Europe as a rich man's curiosity."

As much as the world deserved to be shown the splendour of the Canadian's naked body, Francis found himself increasingly unwilling to share in this sudden windfall. He wanted to be avaricious and lustful. He wanted to keep this beautiful young man to himself for as long as he was allowed. He wanted to be childish and bold, to yell to the world that Matthieu, precious Matthieu, was his and his alone.

Looking across at his darling muse, Francis was pleased to note the faintest smile at the corner of those plush lips. Matthew fiddled with his lip balm, and the Frenchman's own smile grew.

"Francis, _pet_," Alice's sugar-sweet tone could have stopped a heard of stampeding wildebeest, "I don't think you understand. We've had this gallery space booked for a year already. You have an opening speaker coming in. You have guests invited. We have ordered the Goddamn wine. You need to put a picture or two up there because otherwise no one is ever going to take you seriously again."

Pursing his lips and feeling the slick, strawberry warmth of the balm between them, Matthew took a steadying breath, "It's okay, Francis, really," though it wasn't, "I don't mind if you sell the paintings." He most certainly did. As much as he wanted to help Francis out, he wasn't too keen on having himself exhibited arse-naked and three metres tall for the general populace of London town to stare at his bits and pieces.

The Frenchman gave Matthew a stern, slightly disappointed look, before turning his attentions back to Alice. Cringing in his seat, the Canadian thought to himself that perhaps this relationship was not such a good idea. All the reasons that had beset him this morning, all the good things that being with Francis would bring suddenly seemed like a child's idle fantasy. He felt now as though he were no more than six years old, playing at being a grown up, being shushed when the real adults were too interested in their own affairs to bother with him.

"Your boy is speaking sense, Francis, listen to him. He doesn't mind," Alice's smile was insistent. The kind of smile that made you want to do exactly what she said, and Matthew wondered whether she had had any kind of training to make her seem so terribly, forcefully motherly of if that was just her God given personality.

"Matthieu is not my _boy_," the painter said with much more severity in his tone than in the look that he had given the Canadian, "We are partners in a relationship, Alice, and I would thank you to remember that_. Mon cher_," this time he turned from the Englishwoman to the Canadian, and his expression softened to one of fondness, "I do hope you understand. Now that I am permitted a lover's jealousy, I find myself inconsolable at the very idea of another viewing you as I have." Alice was given a sharp look, to which she raised her brows in sceptical response.

Somehow, just as it had a few moments ago – only this time in reverse – everything swung into place. He wasn't a child; it's just that Francis had other reasons for not wanting to sell, reasons that made Matthew light up like a Christmas tree; glowing with a flush of happiness and embarrassment. Now he was a grownup, not playing pretend in front of Alice or Francis, but standing as their equal.

Getting up, he leant over the Frenchman and kissed his cheek, his finger sliding briefly through pale blond hair to linger on the back of Francis' neck, "I should go. You two have a lot to talk about."

A hand, fingers calloused where it had held a paintbrush and skin coarsened by years of exposure to turpentine and other artistically inclined chemicals, found Matthew's, warm and inviting. Francis looked up, his eyes pleading with him not to leave, "Won't you stay, Matthieu? I made mousse."

After a silence,

"It's strawberry."

"You're bribing me with desert?" the younger man couldn't help but laugh, "You won't want to paint me any more if I get fat," he cautioned playfully, pulling his chair closer to Francis so that they could hold hands. But all the same, he resumed his seat.

"Cher, it is not your body I paint. It is _you_," Francis' smile was full of sincere honesty and golden, sunshiny adoration. It was beautiful and intimate and it made any doubts the cheesiness of the line may have brought up vanish. Matthew was sorely tempted to lean in and kiss the Frenchman full on the lips, but at the same time, there was a prickling on the back of his neck, and he turned to see Alice watching them with narrowed eyes. She was squinting at them in the manner that most people squint at pictures of optical illusions, as though she were trying to see the giraffe that was actually in their stead.

"Right," she drew the word out into three syllables, "Okay, I'll just leave you two to your mousse then. It's getting late and I'm rather jet lagged. I'll be back tomorrow to discuss this further, Francis. It was nice to meet you, Michael-"

"Actually, it's Matth-"

"Franc, be a love and show me out?" Alice's tone of voice made it quite evident that her words were in no way intended as a request, but rather as a demand. It did rather help this impression that she grabbed the reluctant Frenchman by the collar and dragged him with her as she left.

Curiosity was generally one of Matthew's lesser weaknesses. He was quite a patient person, and he could generally bide his time until someone told him what was going on, but the looks Alice had been giving him, the way she constantly dismissed his presence, didn't even bother to remember his _name_. As though he wouldn't be around for very long.

"- has on you?" Alice hissed from the hallway.

"Nothing, chérie! I am with Matthieu of my own free will," Francis' voice was equally soft, but at the same time, equally fervent.

"Just…" the Canadian leant against the wall, his eyes closing, "Don't get too attached. I know you're good at that. Not getting attached. He's young, you're rich and famous… This isn't a long term thing for either of you. So don't get too attached. I don't want to have to pick up the pieces of you if you do."

"Alice," the Frenchman's voice was as cold as the north wind, "He didn't even know who I was until you told him to Google me. Everything I have given him has been of my own violation and he has tried to give it all back. I have met men twice his age with not half his maturity. He is beautiful, Alice, and he wants me too. Can you not just be happy for this happiness of mine?"

"It's easy to pretend-"

"You have no proofs!" the volume of this conversation was rising, and is it went up so did the quality of Francis' English go down, "You have no proofs, Alice. He is not a miner!"

"No, Franc," the Englishwoman answered patiently, "I have no evidence that he is a gold-digger, but he's just shy of being a _minor_. Please tell me this 'relationship' of yours is legal?"

"I'm nineteen," Matthew wasn't sure when he'd stepped into the doorway, but he was there now and both of them were staring at him; Francis with a hint of fear and Alice with an expression of mild disgruntlement, "If you wanted to know what my intentions with Francis are, you could have just asked."

"And what are your intentions with Francis?" Alice fired off, not missing a beat.

"Well," the Canadian was caught slightly off guard by her prompt response. Once more, he felt like a child who had been put on the spot in front of the grownups; it was kindergarten stage fright all over again. But he was with Francis, who was looking much like Matthew felt. Francis wasn't really a proper grown up. He was just Francis. Who loved to paint, and who was careless with his responsibilities. And, Matthew reasoned, he had always been quite responsible, even as a child, so maybe they were well matched. And they both liked strawberry, and they had their coffee the same way. So who was Alice to say that they shouldn't be together? "I'm pretty sure I'm in love with him."

The words felt infantile the second he said them.

"Matthieu-" Francis began, his face glowing with hope, before Alice cut across him, her mouth set in a thin line.

"And do you have any idea what being in love means?"

"No," this time Matthew was ready for the question, "That's why I said I'm pretty sure. But I really don't think I know anyone else more qualified to teach me."

The blonde's laugh was cutting in its mockery, "Well, I wish the two of you well. You'll need all the luck you can get." For all that she seemed to be wildly disapproving of whatever relationship the two shared, she also seemed to genuinely wish them the best.

With a melancholy little smile, the kind that comes of a love turned bitter, she slipped out of the door.

The silence that opened up between them in the wake of the lock clicking shut was a vast, abyss. A gulf from which no sound could escape. It swallowed Francis and Matthew down, paralysing them both with a strange mixture of fear and elation.

"Matthieu," Francis' words seemed distant in the fuzz between the Canadian's ears, "Is that true?"

"Yes."

"You think you could love me?"

"I think I do love you," Matthew's words were a breathless, laughing, joyous rush.

"I'm difficult," the Frenchman protested, seeming, as he had before, to test his lover's resolve. And Matthew was nothing if not resolute.

"I honestly haven't noticed," the Canuck replied flippantly.

"The say I'm manic depressive," he tried again.

"You say that like I'll think less of you for it."

"_Mon coeur_," There was a light in Francis' eyes and it danced as the corners crinkled up into a smile of such perfect happiness that it made Matthew's chest ache to see it, "I think I am in love with you also."

In the moments that followed, words were too heavy-handed a medium of self-expression, and neither had the requisite vocabulary to express themselves fully. Kisses would have been vulgar, too soon approached and too base for the emotions that they both wanted to convey. So without kissing, or speaking, they stepped forward and Francis held onto the front of Matthew's shirt, his hands curling into the fabric as he laid his head on the Canadian's shoulder and breathed deep in his contentment. Matthew's arms settled around Francis' waist, comfortable as though they belonged there, and he bowed his head so that pale blond hair ticked his nose and lips.


End file.
